


Lunar Deviation

by AraSigyrn



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Werewolf!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:49:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22854997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AraSigyrn/pseuds/AraSigyrn
Summary: A late night encounter leaves Connor struggling to adapt to his changed life
Relationships: Frederik Andersen/Connor Brown
Comments: 65
Kudos: 138





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this as part of 2020's 'empty the WiP' folder in the hopes that it will encourage me to finish the damn thing.

They're not supposed to even be there, is the thing.

It's a stupid thing to think but really, they're not. The season hasn't even started, they had a preseason game against Ottawa and they _won_ and they have the next two days off. So the boys go out and somehow, he and Mitch are going to a party that a friend-of-a-friend is having and it's a nice night. They're professional hockey players and it's like half a kilometre. 

Connor's the one who says they don't need an Uber.

He thinks Mitch is the one that gets them lost - he's not sure. One street is pretty much the same as another at half past midnight on a Tuesday night. Mitch is definitely the one who figures out that they're lost, pawing at his pocket for his phone while Connor leans into him to stay upright.

They hear the growl in the same nanosecond — Mitch goes still and Connor can feel his pulse racing where Connor's arm is still wrapped around his neck. Connor feels like he's just been dumped in an ice bath. He's still drunk, feels like he's pulling against sticky taffy but his mind is clear, like he's watching the opposition swipe a pass and go charging up the ice and he can see the whole play unfolding. What he can see, just out of the arc of the street light, are eyes.

"Mitch-" he starts.

Things...get a little hazy after that.

There's a lot of shouting - Mitch can make a lot of noise for such a tiny guy - and there's this awful deep snarling growl. Connor's mind kinda blanks out and the next thing he knows, they're running down the street hand in hand. Well, he has Mitch by the wrist and he's half-dragging him along. Mitch is breathing in big uneven whoops, like he did when Chara boarded him that one time. Connor doesn't think he's breathing at all.

They have to stop eventually, lungs burning and Connor looks over at Mitch.

"Fuck, you're bleeding!"

"So, so 're you," Mitch pants at him. "I think, think I dropped my phone, Fuck."

"I have mine," Connor's hands are shaking and he has to tighten them into fists and breathe before he can pry his phone out of his pocket. "...fuck. Who do I even call?"

Mitch spits into the gutter and rubs at his eyes. Connor thinks he might be crying a little. He feels too small and too young and all he wants to do is call his mom. He calls the police instead.

The nice police officer who finds them sitting on the kerb, leaning into each other and shaking like it's mid-December instead of summer, calls the ambulance. She lends Mitch her jacket and talks to them the whole time they're waiting. Connor tells her everything he remembers, which isn't a lot.

The hospital is painfully bright and Mitch whimpers and latches onto Connor tight enough that the docs stick them in the same cubicle. The police officer stays with them as long as the curtains are open but she steps out when the doctor comes in. Connor gives his name, then Mitch's and the doctor doesn't even look up from the paperwork. Must not be a hockey fan, Connor thinks with a giggle that he just manages to keep internal.

"Do you want to stay with your boyfriend while we patch you up?" She looks at him over her glasses and her eyes are kind. Connor kinda wants to burst into tears. Then he actually hears what she's saying.

"No! I mean, he's not my boyfriend. He's my team-mate," Connor waves his hand and feels the sting as fresh scabs pop and there's the warm, wet feeling of blood trickling down his arm. "We're hockey players."

"All right," the doctor puts her clipboard aside and reaches for a pair of gloves. "Let me just patch you up, then you can talk to the nice officer and she'll get you home."

Connor nods helplessly. The doctor is quick and efficient, mopping up the blood and his stomach turns when he looks down. 

"That, those don't look like knife cuts," he manages and the doctor flashes him a look. He has to swallow twice before he can finish that thought. "They look like, like-"

"Like a bite," Mitch says, so quiet that he sounds like a stranger.

"We'll run some tests," the doctor says and pauses. Connor feels the terror like a cold gust of wind down his spinal column. "It isn't the sort of thing that we can say without some blood tests."

Connor's skin is prickling, cringing away from the sticky dampness around the injuries that isn't blood. The air feels too thin and Mitch is starting to shake. Connor feels like he's shaking apart.

The doc is good, kind but efficient; Connor barely even feels the needle prick the crook of his arm. He doesn't register being bandaged up until Mitch resettles next to him, shoulder-to-shoulder and Connor feels the bandage rub against the papery scrubs.

The nice officer comes back and talks at them for a while. Connor answers when she asks him a question but he's kind of floating and just self-aware enough to know that he can't handle the implications. He's holding himself together okay-ish until his phone pings and he nearly drops it.

He's on auto-pilot when he thumbs open his messages, not thinking just doing. It's a message from Auston, asking if Connor's seen Mitch because he's not picking up when Auston calls him.

Connor puts the phone down, hyper calm. And leans over to throw up into the little cardboard basin. Once his stomach is empty and cramping around the need to just be sick, Connor starts to cry.

The nice officer calls..., well Connor doesn't think she actually calls Babs but she definitely calls someone who calls him. He and Mitch are practically dozing when they hear familiar footsteps and the curtain rattles and Babs is just there. Connor feels like his shoulders have dropped two feet and Mitch basically becomes a puddle.

* * *

It's nearly seven in the morning when the doctor comes back with their test results. Connor and Mitch have been moved to a private room and Babs is pacing around, phone at his ear. Connor is dimly aware that he should be paying attention but he's starting a bitch of a hangover and they won't give him anything more substantial than ice-chips in case they need to do more.

The doctor who brings the results isn't the same doctor. This doctor must be in his fifties and he smells so sharply of antiseptic that Connor can feel his nose crinkle up. Mitch whines low in his throat and buries his face in Connor's scrub top.

Connor doesn't need to listen to what the doctor says, the man's expression says it all.

They haven't just been mugged. They've been Bitten.

It means a lot of pamphlets, paperwork that gets taken out of their hands by the team doctor and Babs sighing very deeply. Connor just looks at his hands and tries to think. He isn't as clueless as your average citizen - he was an Otter and Stromer made the Wolf look easy. Connor's never been afraid of Stromer; always been able to see a friend and team-mate even when the eyes he was looking into were gold rather than brown.

Babs shoos the docs out when it becomes apparent that neither Connor nor Mitch are processing. He puts his phone away and looks at them seriously.

"All right, boys," he says and Connor feels his spine straighten in response to the 'Coach' voice. "The team's on their way back to Toronto, we'll get you on a plane as soon as the docs clear you for travel. This is a big deal, all right? But the team is going to support you. We got three weeks before the season starts and I want you ready to play by then, so I'm going to need you to work hard and do what the doctors tell you."

"Yes, Coach," Connor says and Mitch echoes him.

"There's practice tomorrow," Babs looks out the window like he's thinking. "Probably better if you wait to talk to the boys until then. Do it all at once, okay?"

"Yessir," Connor says and feels sick with a fresh surge of dread. 

"Don't want to rile Freddie up, all right?"

"Nossir," Connor says and has to swallow back the bile.

It's never been a secret that Freddie's a Wolf. Connor'd heard rumours but Babs had told them the basics. Connor knows that Freddie's born, not made and the reason the Ducks were so happy to trade him was that he and Getzlaf had started to seriously butt heads. Two Alphas in one pack is hard to do. The Ducks figured they could replace a goalie easier than they could replace their captain so voilá, Freddie in Toronto.

Mitch swallows loud enough that Connor can hear him. "How soon can we go home, Coach?"

"I'll have a word with the docs," Babs says and slips out.

They get to leave an hour later, complete with a big thick folder of paperwork for the team's medical staff. Babs has a car waiting and they get whisked away to the airport. Mitch is all but dead on his feet while they board and he's asleep in no time. Connor hates him a little for how easily he falls asleep.

Connor can't sleep. He's exhausted, bones turned to lead and his eyes are burning but he can't settle. He can't shut off the steady stream of worse-case scenarios and his head is really, really starting to hurt. He orders a sparkling water and a ginger ale from the stewardess and props his head against the window for the rest of the flight.

* * *

They're the last ones to arrive for practice the next day, still in sweats and bandages. Lisa, the team's were-co-ordinator, has talked to them multiple times about what they need to do. Connor elbows Mitch when his head starts to dip forward and has to help him out of the car. The fresh air helps to clear his head and Mitch perks up.

"Energizer bunny," Connor teases and Mitch gives him the finger.

They're both nervous, Connor can smell Mitch's nerves like lightning in the air. He's getting too familiar with Mitch's fear-smells for his own comfort. Lisa walks with them as far as the door of the locker room but doesn't come in.

The locker room is team space and Connor tries to be as normal as possible when he pushes the door open.

The murmur of conversation cuts off as he steps in, Mitch close at his side. Everyone's there, in various stages of dressed or undressed. The guys shuffle back so there's a clear path across the room to Freddie's stall.

Freddie is in his full equipment, sitting in his stall like a king in his throne. He's as inscrutable as ever, towel slung around his neck and Connor breathes in. His sense of smell is better (or worse, considering he's in a locker room) but not wolf-sharp yet. He's pretty sure that he can actually smell Freddie - fresh ice and sun-warmed grass.

Connor leads the way across the locker room which feels like it's a mile long and stops a foot away from Freddie. Freddie growls, a low sustained rumble that makes all the small hairs stand up on the back of Connor's neck. He can't hear anything but Freddie's growl and his own breathing as he lowers himself to his knees. He's moving slowly because his head's throbbing and his arms and legs feel heavy but Connor tries to be as deliberate as possible. 

He keeps his eyes on the floor and ducks his head to the left to expose his neck. Mitch is a little noisier as he settles into place but Connor is focused on Freddie. The locker room is echoingly silent.

Freddie's still growling.

Connor's heart pounds hard enough that he thinks it's shaking him. He can hear Freddie's equipment squeak as he shifts position and his growl gets deeper. Connor cringes, pressing his cheek harder into his shoulder, trying to sink lower into the floor. He's not challenging Freddie, he's not, he's not, he's not!

Freddie catches him by the back of the neck, still growling in that deep pitch that makes Connor shake and Connor hears the rustle of movement. He doesn't dare look up - Lisa was adamant that he must not meet Freddie's eyes without permission - but he steals a glance sideways, just enough to see that Naz has a hand on Mitch's back, like he's ready to haul him away.

Freddie's growl changes again and he shakes Connor. Connor can't keep his balance, feels his arm slip out from under him but instead of pushing him down, Freddie actually holds him up. Connor doesn't move, just breathes and tries to look as submissive as possible. He can see the toes of Freddie's pads and he keeps his eyes on the scuffs.

Freddie's still growling when someone clears their throat.

"I think it's the hospital smell," Patty. Connor could kiss him but Freddie's hand tightens on the back of his neck. "You boys need a shower."

There's a rumble of agreement and Freddie lets Connor go, still growling like he's chasing some dumbfuck out of his crease. Someone catches Connor's shoulder and he can see Naz pulling Mitch up to his feet. Auston's right beside Mitch, head ducked in deference to Freddie.

Connor's Good Samaritan turns out to be Zach.

"You okay, Brownie?" Zach says quietly and Connor has to fight the urge to laugh.

"Not really, thanks Hyms."

"You look kinda pale," Zach has to all but haul him onto his feet and Connor's head spins. He staggers and hisses when Hymie grabs his arm, right over the stitches, to steady him. "Brownie!"

Someone grabs his other shoulder as Hymie starts shouting for the doc. The world tilts under Connor's feet and he staggers. He crashes into what feels like a warm brick wall but the world gets hazy and the next thing he knows, he's lying on one of the trainer's couches with a towel over his eyes.

"You're dehydrated," the trainer says. "When's the last time you ate something?"

Connor can't remember and the trainer sighs and tells him to stay right there and eat the protein bars he's given and drink his Gatorade. The bars taste like cardboard and there's a slick aftertaste to the Gatorade that he doesn't like but he does what he's told.

The boys trickle in one by one after training to say hi and check on him.

Mango's the first one to show up and he gives Connor shit about the bags under his eyes before he gets serious, hand on Connor's shoulder. "I'm glad you're okay."

"You just don't wanna get stuck on the shut down line," Connor says but it comes out gruff and awkward. Mango, like a true bro, laughs and promises to get him a protein shake.

Most of the rest of the guys just stay long enough to tell him that he and Mitch scared the shit out of them, that they're glad he's okay and that he better not fuck himself up. Naz wants him over for dinner to see if Jazz will react differently to him now which makes Connor laugh weakly.

"For real though," Naz gestures at Connor's arms. "You did good, saving Mitch like that."

"I didn't save Mitch," Connor says, a little bitter. 

"Except you totally did," Naz says. "I got him into the shower, I saw how badly he's cut up and you're a lot worse." Connor opens his mouth to protest but Naz holds his hand up to cut him off. "And your arms are fucked up, like you were trying to fight someone. Mitch doesn't have that. So. Good job, kid."

"I'm not a kid," Connor says automatically but he rubs a thumb over his bandages, thinking. "But thanks, Naz."

Naz nods, makes him promise he'll come to dinner as soon as the trainers let him out and goes away.

Auston shows up next and he's acting really weird. Connor's still tired as fuck so it takes a minute to realize Auston's trying to be _polite_. Auston's the Wolf closest to Freddie which means that he's the logical one to ask. It's still harder than Connor would have believed to work up the courage to actually ask.

"Is Freddie..." Connor gropes for the right words. "Did I do it wrong? Like submitting? Did I fuck it up?"

Auston smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes. "You did great, dude. Freddie's just...being Freddie."

It's not an answer but at least Connor didn't fuck it up.

"How's Mitch?" he asks.

"Patty's taking him home," Auston says. "Says he needs feeding up and he's not as wrecked as you so the trainers said okay."

"You going too?" Connor asks and Auston's gaze slides away from him.

"Don't want to intrude," he says and Connor laughs at him. Auston frowns. "What? I'm being considerate!"

"You're being dumb," Connor says. "Mitch is going to want you there."

"Yeah?"

"Dude," Connor rolls his eyes, "Mitch always wants you there. Plus, he's going to have so many questions."

"You're not making a good case here," Auston lies, but he's smiling a bit. "If you don't mind riding back with Hyms, I might just do that."

"It's like miles out of his way," Connor says, Canadian manners surfacing and Auston shakes his head.

"We're off tomorrow, Coach says, and it'll make him feel better if he knows you're home safe."

"Well, if it's no trouble," Connor says reluctantly. He can't really imagine driving himself and the idea of a taxi makes him feel twitchy.

"I'll tell him," Auston pats him on the leg. "Take care of yourself, dude."

"Do my best," Connor scrapes up a smile and Auston leaves.

Zach shows up with Kappy in tow and Connor's bracing himself for Kappy's soulful stare and million questions. Zach must have bribed him, or threatened him or something though because Kappy sticks to telling him that he's a dumbass for not drinking enough and staying close enough to catch him if he falls. Connor grunts at him,

"So," Zach says when they're alone in Zach's car. "How are you feeling? Really?"

"Like shit," Connor says. "Actually, like I just got mugged and bitten."

Zach doesn't take the bait, just looks over at him. Connor thumps his head into the window.

"I don't know how I feel," Connor says, "I don't know shit about weres, I'm going to fuck it up, I might have fucked it up already and I've been a were for like eight hours. That better?"

"You're not fucking anything up," Zach says reassuringly. "You submitted, that's all you had to do."

Connor's just too tired to argue with him. He's drifting, blinking slow and heavy and he barely registers Zach helping him out of the car. His apartment is blissfully empty, only smells of him and the diet-plan-breaking-burger he had the night before they left for Ottawa. He visits the bathroom, leaves the grubby scrubs in a pile by the toilet and face-plants into his bed.

The sun wakes him late the next morning, shining in past his open curtains and brightly indifferent to Connor's cursing. He hauls himself out of bed to use the bathroom and winds up showering because even he thinks he stinks. He has to get tape and plastic bags from the kitchen to wrap around his forearms and upper arms but he feels much better for having washed off the smell of stale booze, blood and fear out of his hair.

He orders breakfast, using the landline because his phone is somewhere in the ACC and eats his pancakes on his sofa, with the TV on and showing the local headlines. No mention of NHL players being bitten which is good. 

Then Connor pulls out his laptop and Skypes Stromer. He's lucky — Stromer's not at camp today, just chilling in his hotel room.

"Hey Brow-" Stromer stops, leaning forward until his forehead fills the screen. "What the fuck happened to you?"

"Hey Stromer," Connor says. "Uh, it's a long story?"

"I don't have anywhere to be until lunch," Stromer says, sitting back just far enough that Connor can see his face. "Start talking."

Even if Connor wanted to lie, he doesn't think he could with Stromer watching him with narrowed eyes. 

"I got Bitten," he says baldly and Stromer hisses.

"Who?"

"Dunno," Connor looks down at his hands. "It was like a mugging? I think the police are looking for them."

"Tell me," Stromer says and Connor does. He doesn't make like it wasn't stupid as hell to be wandering around drunk in the middle of the night but Stromer shakes his excuses off with a sharp shake of his head.

"Don't," he says when Connor tries to argue. "There's no protected territory in Ottawa. Even if you were in protected territory, most that they should have done is given you a scare. Nobody fucking _Bites_ someone for being a drunken asshole."

"I wasn't being an asshole," Connor says. "Marns might have been."

Stromer flashes him a sharp smile but gestures for him to continue. Connor gets as far as Freddie and the submission that Connor probably fucked up. That makes Stromer blink but he shakes his head.

"I don't know what the fuck he was playing at but that's not a rejection," Stromer says immediately. "If he was going to reject you, he'd throw you out of the room."

"Like physically?" Connor says. "'Cause he was growling a lot, man."

"Yes, physically," Stromer says impatiently. "Like, an alpha has to show strength when they reject someone, show that they're not afraid the rookie's going to challenge them. Andersen's being weird but he's not going to try and throw you out of the team."

Connor goes a little limp with relief and Stromer waves his hands. 

"So, did they do the blood tests?" he asks/demands.

"Yeah," Connor says.

"And you're really...?"

"Yeah," Connor repeats.

"Fuck," Stromer says. "It's not supposed to happen like this, you know? The Bite's meant to be a gift, not a fucking attack."

"Well, it's done," Connor says, more confidently than he feels. "So, I was kinda hoping you might have some advice."

Stromer blinks at him for a second, then laughs. "Damn, I wish I'd recorded that."

Connor rolls his eyes, secretly pleased that Stromer doesn't look so serious any more.

"Okay," Stromer starts. "First things first, you're gonna have to shift at the full moon, at least the first couple of times. They're gonna make you shift on your own the first time, since it wasn't a voluntary bite."

"That matters?" Connor asks and Stromer shrugs.

"There's some research out there, it's repressed rage bs. I don't think you'll have a problem if you bring some toys. Like the Kong toys or something like that. Don't bother bringing like tennis balls or that shit. Ask at the pet-shop, don't laugh at me, just trust me. You're gonna need something else to do because they'll probably like put you in a room and you'll be bored."

"Toys," Connor says. "Right."

"Talk to your nutritionist," Stromer says. "You're gonna need to eat more. More meat if you can. Steak is good but you need to eat a lot of types of meat. I'll give you my trainer's number, he's a were-nutritionist and he'll explain the whole thing."

"Got it," Connor nods.

"Check your wardrobe," Stromer says. "And like, your towels and your sheets and everything. You might be more sensitive. Do a sniff test on your detergents and shit. If it makes you sneeze or whatever, replace it. There's a couple of were-friendly brands out there — I'll send you a message."

He looks at Connor and smiles crookedly.

Connor's opened a file and he's typing all this down. Being a were is fucking complicated. "Anything else?"

"Don't bring people home," Stromer says, "I mean, if Andersen wants to come hang, you shouldn't say no to that but don't invite people back to yours unless you're sure you want them there. Trust me, it's easier to just say no than dealing with them stinking up the place for days."

"Got it," Connor doesn't really like having people in his place, so that shouldn't be a problem.

"Last thing," Stromer says and waits until Connor looks up before he continues, "don't be a martyr, okay? If shit is making you twitch or like, growly, get rid of it, get away whatever. Your wolf's part of you now, you can't change the things you don't like and you'll just be fucking miserable if you try."

"I can do that," Connor says, a little doubtfully. Stromer's smile softens.

"You can call me if you need anything, but you'll settle quicker if you hang with the weres on your team," he says, "but you're like a puppy right now, so don't panic and don't be like Davo, okay? Your best is good enough."

Connor has to swallow the lump in his throat before he can say thank you. Stromer waves him off, just like he always does and changes the subject. It's weirdly reassuring to just shoot the shit with Stromer and by the time Stromer has to go 'have brunch' with Domi, Connor feels about a hundred times better about this.

He gets a cab to the ACC, because he wants to talk to the trainers and get his phone back. He trusts Stromer to keep his mouth shut but Mitch is one of the biggest gossips in the hockey world, no way people don't know about this.

The trainers take off the bandages, Connor's startled to discover that he's pretty much healed, aside from the raw pink scars which tingle but don't actually hurt. Connor gets a chance to talk to the nutritionist who tells him that they'll have to see how his dietary needs change and he gets his phone back.

He's still tired after he gets out of the last of the very serious meeting he has to sit through and the trainers tell him to take a cab home. His phone is dead when Connor tries to check it and he plugs it into the charger while he investigates his kitchen for food.

There are a couple of chicken breasts and some meatballs that smell of sauce and make Connor's stomach growl. He puts them in the oven and regretfully decides against one of the beers sitting on the bottom shelf. He can't find any carbs that smell good so he doesn't bother with any. 

When he does check his phone, he has a whole bunch of messages. Most are from the group chat, starting with complaints that he and Mitch are running late. The messages get less pissy and more worried about the time that Connor was calling 911. Patty tries calling Mitch apparently and doesn't get an answer.

At three am, there's a single message from Freddie.

_FA(03:00:21): coach has news._

The group chat goes quiet for a few hours. Messages pick back up about the time that Connor and Mitch were being dropped off at the ACC. Most of it's just the usual bs but there is one message from Kappy.

_KK(14:11::13): they're coming here soon right?_

_FA(14:11:42): yes._

Then radio silence again until about three hours later when the guys start talking about plans for a team dinner. There are some individual messages from half the team, checking in and trying to indicate that they're cool with his new status. Then there are a string of links from Stromer that Connor saves for his next meeting with the trainers and coaching staff. Nothing out of the ordinary from any of his non-NHL bros, which is a relief.

Then he goes to bed.


	2. Chapter 2

The next few days are exhausting, and boring. The full moon is Saturday and Babs doesn't want to put him or Mitch on the ice until the training staff have a better idea of what sort of changes they're showing. Connor runs on treadmills, with and without the oxygen tube strapped to his mouth and lifts weights. He doesn't really notice anything different until they break out the ball hockey. 

Connor's always been focused - he's not a flashy superstar the way Auston, Willy and Mitch are; Connor's success is mostly in being too stubborn to quit when he should. But once he has a stick in hand, it's like the ball lights up for him or something. The trainer he's working with calls in Babs to watch and Connor barely notices.

Mitch is crazy fast now; he was always the roadrunner but watching him on skates now is a revelation. Connor has to watch for a few minutes before he realises it's not just speed, Mitch is turning better and looking like he's solid even when he's spinning. 

"Looking dangerous there," Connor says when Mitch glides to a stop beside him.

Mitch huffs and steals his water bottle. "It needs to be something, this Wolf shit fucking sucks."

"Oh?" Connor watches Mitch go pink under his flush. "You can't just leave it hanging like that, man."

"I'm scared of the fucking vaccum cleaner," Mitch bursts out, glaring when Connor loses his shit laughing. "It's not fucking funny, asshole!"

"It totally is," Connor manages. "How'd you even find out?"

"My apartment smelled weird," Mitch says, "and I thought if I cleaned it up, I'd be able to relax. I was cool until I switched the fucking thing on and..."

"You weren't?" Connor guesses.

"I jumped on the couch," Mitch admits into his water bottle. "Couldn't stop fucking growling either."

Connor cracks up again and Mitch smacks wildly at his shoulder. The tussle ends up with both of them on the ice, panting like crazy. Connor feels so much better just being on the ice.

So of course, instead of getting more ice time, he gets an hour to grab lunch before he has to report back to the practice facility to be locked in a room to wait out the full moon.

Remembering Stromer's advice, he goes to the nearest pet store and leaves with two bags full of toys and treats. He doesn't know what wolf-him is going to like so he decides that this is one of the problems that you solve by buying everything. It's not like he can't donate the stuff he doesn't use to a shelter or something.

He's super glad for Stromer's advice when he actually sees the room they're putting him in. It's not too small but there is a toilet, a bunk and that's it. It looks like a classy version of a prison cell which does so much to make Connor feel better about this. Connor puts his two bags in the corner without making eye contact with the trainer who's waiting by the door.

They do order him a pizza, but Connor gets put in the room right away. Lisa comes by to explain what he needs to do and just how solid the door is.

"It's all just precautions, Connor," she says reassuringly.

"Uh-huh," Connor fidgets with the draw-strings on his sweats. He's feeling kinda itchy, the way he does when he's waiting in the locker room between warm-ups and puck drop, like he's full of energy but he can't ground himself. 

"I'll leave you to get settled," she says, "the trainers will check in on you through the night and tomorrow morning, we'll have a talk about how you're feeling and get you back on the roster."

"Thanks," Connor says and watches her leave. The door is solid steel with one of those slots that let someone look into the room. Connor thinks you'd need a truck to get through that door and he gets a tennis ball out of one of his bags and starts bouncing it off the wall.

He doesn't really remember the change. To his human mind, it's like he had some really vivid dreams but nothing solid enough for him to point to. He mostly remembers hearing Mitch whining, the very sharp taste of smoked meat and an absolute surety that Freddie was there. 

As it is, he wakes up, stiff as a board and fuzzy-headed, to find himself curled up under his bunk. Well, he thinks it's his bunk until he recognizes the sound of Mitch snoring.

"What the fuck?" Connor slurs as he tries to sort out his arms and legs enough to move. He discovers that he's naked and stops moving. "Who let you in?"

Mitch snorts awake, which is exactly as gross as it sounds and Connor sees his arm flail out from the bunk.

"Brownie?" he asks, at least Connor's pretty sure he does.

"What the fuck are you doing in here?" Connor manages to actually articulate this time.

Mitch pokes his head over the edge of the bunk. He looks like he stuck his fingers in a socket. "My room, asshole. Well, I probably shouldn't call you an asshole. I'll totally pay you back for those squeaky toys."

"What?" Connor rubs at his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"You're in my room," Mitch says, slow like Connor's the dumbass. "You like dug through the wall."

"I _what_?"

"You dug in through the wall," Mitch repeats. "Like, it was totally awesome! You're fucking huge, dude!"

"You wouldn't shut up..." Connor says. He can remember that; Mitch was whining like a puppy who'd been locked out but louder and more obnoxious. He rolls his head, trying to stretch out and his eye catches on a pile of rubble in the corner. He blinks, but there's still a hole in the wall.

"I was bored!" Mitch reaches down to poke him sharply in the side and Connor swats at him. "It's cool, you weren't like bitchy or anything. Wolf-you is totally chill. I'm not surprised, you could, like, eat polar bears. Nothing's big enough to fuck with you but they went and got Freddie, I think? Or maybe he was already here? I wasn't paying attention - I didn't even know he was there until you went over to like whine at the door."

"Freddie was here?" Connor doesn't know if that's a good thing or a bad one. 

"He didn't come in or anything but the trainers stopped running around after he showed up," Mitch rubs at his mouth. "How long before they let us, do you think? I need a toothbrush like, yesterday!"

"Soon, I hope," Connor rolls himself slowly out from under the bunk. He feels like he's been bag-skated into the concrete and Mitch isn't the only one feeling less than minty-fresh.

Lisa shows up about fifteen minutes later, with fresh clothes and coffee which is enough to make Connor want to propose. He manages, just about, to maintain enough chill to just say thanks. She doesn't come into the room, just sticks her arm around the door with a carrier bag stuffed with clothes.

Lisa's office, which Connor didn't even know existed, is a pretty roomy one with lots of comfy chairs and big cushions. He sniffs the air and picks up a jumble of scents that reminds him of the boys. Freddie's scent is all over the place but some of the chairs smell of things that make Connor think of Auston or JT or other weres.

"Sit wherever you'd like," Lisa says from behind him and Connor jumps. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's cool," Connor looks at all the chairs and breathes a little deeper. He picks the chair that smells most of everyone all jumbled together and pulls it closer to Lisa's desk.

"I just want to talk a little bit about your shift," Lisa says, "and give you a chance to ask any questions you might have."

"Okay," Connor scratches his nails lightly against the grain of his jeans.

"So, first things first," Lisa says, tapping at her iPad. "How much do you remember of last night?"

"Uh," Connor tries to think of anything concrete. "I remember Mitch was making noise, Freddie came by and ...well that's about it."

"That's okay," Lisa smiles reassuringly. "It isn't common knowledge because born-weres have their first shift while they're babies but almost nobody remembers their first shift."

"Mitch was talking like he did," Connor points out.

" _Almost_ nobody," Lisa slides the iPad across the desk. "You want to take a look?"

Connor gets to watch, from the perspective of a CCTV camera he hadn't even noticed, as he shifts. The angle doesn't completely cover the bunk - Connor can see the lump of his legs under the blanket. There's no big moment, in fact, it looks like Connor-in-the-video just rolls off the bunk and it's not until the blanket pulls loose to bare fur rather than skin that Connor even realizes what happened.

"Mitch said I was big," Connor says. It's really hard to judge but the wolf on the video stretches and he's gotta be longer than the bunk, right? It's really hard to look at the wolf and not freak out. He breathes out, tries to treat it like watching tape of his play after a game. The only thing familiar about the wolf is the reddish tint to his/its fur. He kinda hopes that he's this chill normally.

"Based on the footage, you're probably at least part Dire Wolf," Lisa says. Connor blinks.

"What, like the Game of Thrones?"

"More like the prehistoric wolf ancestor, but yeah," Lisa smiles. "I don't think you're big enough to be a full Dire, but there's probably going to be a high percentage in your shifted-DNA. We can run a full profile if you want, it's probably just going to take a while to find a Dire genome source so we can be sure. La Brea might have some viable samples."

"So, wait, people actually turn into Dire Wolves?" Connor pauses the video. "Even though they're extinct?"

"Not very many people," Lisa says. "I think you're the only professional athlete with obvious Dire traits. Were taxonomy is ...complicated. If you were born Were, your shift species will be the same species as your parent or parents. But if you're bitten, you will shift into the same species as the Were that bit you, but you don't necessarily turn into the same subspecies. So you were bitten by a Wolf but we can't say anything else about them."

Connor shivers and hits play on the video. Wolf-him seems pretty chill, sniffing around the room and investigating the bags of toys in the corner. There's no audio, so Connor's mostly guessing that Mitch must have started making noise because the wolf on the video is looking around with his ears up.

He's a little afraid of what he actually did - the hole in the wall looked monstrous when he was looking - but it's anticlimactic as hell. The wolf just goes into the corner, the camera moves a little like there's an operator playing with it and he starts digging at the wall. The walls are concrete and cinder block but Connor watches as the corner just disintegrates into lumps of stone and grey dust.

It seems to take no time at all before there's a nose poking through the wall and Mitch as a wolf pops into the room. Mitch looks...well, Mitch looks like a tiny fluffy polar bear with a tail that's wagging so hard it blurs on the feedback. Connor's pretty sure he actually bought a toy that looks like Mitch so he's a little worried.

The wolf that was him just sniffs at Mitch and wags his own tail and they start circling each other and bouncing around like two dogs meeting at the dog park. Connor watches in silence for a minute before he stops the video and hands the iPad back.

"Any questions?" Lisa asks. "Aside from the Dire Wolf thing. I'll get some more info on that for you, no problem, but it might take a little while. We can talk about doing a shifted medical in a few weeks but you're not aggressive or dangerous so the league is fine with you just getting right back on the ice."

"That's cool," Connor says. He's not even lying is the thing. The league can get its undies in a twist over the most anal shit and he wasn't sure if this was the sort of thing where the team just shrugged it off and sent Connor off to have hour-long phone calls with his agent.

"I'll just give you my number then," Lisa says, "if you think of anything else. You're also totally free to drop by if you need to. I'm a Cat, so it won't challenge the pack structure if you want to come to me first."

"Oh, cool," Connor takes her card and goes back out. There's an assistant waiting to hustle him off to his meeting with Babs. He passes Mitch who bumps fists and tells him "it's all cool.".

Connor's interview with Babs is short and to the point.

"Freddie says you're not a risk, trainers say you're good to play," Babs looks at him. "You feel ready?"

"Yessir," Connor says.

"You won't play tonight," Babs warns, "but we'll give it a try on Wednesday."

"Yessir," Connor says. "Thank you."

"Go home, take it easy and we'll see you for practice tomorrow." Babs waves him off.

Lisa has a folder of paperwork for him to review but she lets him go home with it, rather than making him stay in the practice facility. There's his official legal change of status, complete with a new driver's licence that looks identical to his old one until he finally notices the little crescent-moon/paw print symbol in the bottom left corner.

None of that stack of paperwork really needs him to do anything aside from sign where someone's stuck Post-Its with 'Sigh Here!' and arrows pointing to the line where he has to sign. It takes him like fifteen minutes, including the time it takes to pull his old licence out of his wallet and replace it with the new one.

The next stack is the police report.

Connor does _not_ want to read the police report. He's been doing okay for the last few days not thinking about it. He gave his statement, he's pretty sure and they took blood and samples at the hospital. Trying to think back any further than that makes his stomach lurch and he has to run to the bathroom before he throws up.

There isn't really anything in his stomach to come up but Connor stays sitting on his bathroom floor, shaking like he's got a fever. The fading scars on his arms itch furiously but Connor can't unclench his hands enough to scratch.

There's this weird whimpering sound. He knows it's coming from him. It doesn't feel like it's coming from him. It echoes around the bathroom, raking along his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. Connor tips his head back against the wall and really, just wants his mom.

He feels like he's five years old, everything big and scary and he just wants to hide himself under his covers. He closes his eyes, he didn't turn on the lights but it looks like he doesn't need them now, and breathes. The bathroom feels like that room, walls closing in until he can't hear his breathing over the thunder of his heartbeat.

After what feels like forever, the feeling gets less overwhelming and Connor can push himself back onto his feet. He stumbles over his own feet to get to the sink where he splashes water in his face and rubs at his eyes. He's prickly with stubble but Connor can't really be bothered to shave.

He shucks his shirt and jeans and makes a beeline for his bed. He's just going to put his head down, sleep until it doesn't feel like someone's left the world turned up and start again tomorrow. He's just pulling his covers up when his phone rings. It's his mom's ringtone.

Connor really, genuinely wants to let it go to voicemail.

Instead he rolls over and snatches up his phone.

"Hello, sweetheart," his mom sounds super awake and cheerful.

"Hi, mom," Connor says and lets his mom chatter away. It's just the usual news and gossip, nothing that he can't just 'uh-huh' or 'oh, really?' away. He doesn't say anything real until his mom has wound down.

"They said you weren't going to be playing tonight, on the broadcast." There's a hint of reproach, like she's really saying 'we had to find you weren't playing from the tv'. Connor tries to believe that's not what she means.

"No," he says, has to cough to clear his throat. "No, uh, something came up. I'm probably going to play the next game."

"Well, it's only the preseason," she says and oh, Connor wants to just agree and put off this conversation for, well, forever. That's probably a sign that he's an awful son so he takes a deep breath.

"Actually, uh, mom," he has to swallow the sudden dryness in his throat, "it was a little more serious."

"Oh?" His mom sounds a little distracted.

"Um, we - me and one of the guys, I mean, - we, uh, we got bit. Bitten."

"What on earth were you doing, biting each other!?" His mom demands.

"No, no not like that," Connor closes his eyes. "We got _Bitten_ , mom. We had our first shifts last night."

The silence on the other end of the line curdles and Connor bites his lip hard not to just start babbling. His mom is still there. He can hear her breathing and the way it gets a little wetter.

"It's all cool with the league," he says when he can't bear the silence. "It's not going to change anything with the team-"

"Well!" His mom says sharply. "If it's 'all cool' with the team, I suppose it doesn't matter what your own mother thinks!"

"That's not what I-" Connor tries but his mom is talking faster now, her words clipped like he's just brought home a report card with an F.

"It's not going to interfere, so no-one thinks that maybe I would like to know that _my son_ has been turned into an animal! No, no, it's all right with the league so I'll just change out your bed for a dog basket! Or should I be putting in a cage?!"

"Mom-"

"No, no, it's all okay! That's what your precious league thinks. You can still play and break your legs trying to stop a puck! Who cares if you're a monster now!?"

"I'm not a monst-"

"Will I need to buy you a muzzle?" His mom is starting to sound less shrill but she's still furious. "Do I need to get a rabies shot?"

"I don't have rabi-"

"Should I be stocking up on flea collars? What about that nice necklace your grandmother gave me? Do I need to throw that out?!"

"Mo-"

"And what are we supposed to do about your cousins' kids? They're only children, Connor!"

"It's not-"

"We're going to have to cancel Thanksgiving now, I hope you're proud of yourself! We can't have children over! It just wouldn't be safe! Unless your dad puts up a cage or something but-"

" _MOM_!" Connor half-shouts. His mom stops talking. Her breathing is ragged now. He can hear her sniffle but Connor just...he can't. "I...I can't talk to you about this, mom. I'm sorry."

"But you can't be happy that this happened to you!" His mom cries. "You're a good boy, Connor!"

"I've been a Wolf for like three days, mom, I'm not anything about it right now," Connor pulls his knees up to his chest. His eyes are stinging. "Give my love to dad, okay?"

"But-"

He hits the end call button and lets himself topple slowly over. He isn't exactly crying but he's not exactly not-crying either. He just feels like he took a Chara slapshot to the gut and he's in that weird moment between actually being hit and registering that he's been hit. Like, the universe has stalled out and it's just waiting for him to realize that he's actually been fucked up.

He lies there for a while and just breathes his way through it. He might fall asleep for a bit. The sky is fading from grey into the really, really pale blue of pre-dawn when he finally levers himself out of bed and hears his joints pop.

Connor gets himself under the shower, scrubs himself until his skin is the same pink-red as the sky outside and gets into his gear for morning skate.

He grabs his phone, stuffs it into his bag and doesn't look at it until he's parked in the ACC car park. There are some missed calls and voicemails from his dad and a couple of text messages that basically say that his mom has a point and that Connor should try and see it from her point of view. Then there are a couple of links to YouTube videos with titles like "How to Cure Your Lunatic Lycanthropy!" and "Secret cure for werewolves that the government tries to hide!".

Connor tips his head forward to lean his forehead on his steering wheel. He takes three deep breaths, lifts his head and deliberately exits out of the chat with his dad. Instead, he opens his WhatsApp chat with Stromer.

_CBrown: so  
CBrown: remember how i punched u that time in eerie when u said my parents were phobic?  
CBrown: u were right._

There's no response for a second. Connor's not really expecting one. It's godfuck early in Arizona right now and Dylan doesn't do mornings unless he's coming at them from the night before.

It's a surprise when his phone buzzes.

_DStrome: shit  
DStrome: sry. i kinda hoped u were right.  
DStrome: take it they weren't supportive?  
CBrown: no.  
CBrown: havent disowned me.  
CBrown: yet.  
DStrome: fuck.  
CBrown: yeah.  
CBrown: now they wanna fix me.  
DStrome: fuck.  
DStrome: like the bs homepathic shit?  
CBrown: to start with.  
DStrome: thast not good.  
CBrown: no shit  
DStrome: if u needto  
DStrome: my moms like alpha of toronto  
DStrome: so you can make her ur next of kin.  
DStrome: in case you get hurt.  
CBrown: would she mind?  
DStrome: hell no.  
DStrome: she loves you dude.  
CBrown: she wont mind? for real?  
DStrome: no. but might have to say you got bit so she knows.  
CBrown: u didnt tell her?  
DStrome: not my place.  
DStrome: if u want me to tell her now, i can.  
DStrome: just so she knows.  
CBrown: id appreciate it.  
DStrome: ill tell her to be cool.  
CBrown: ty._

It doesn't make up for his parents blowing up his phone with bullshit links to 'cures' but it does make Connor feel a little less like being the only guy back on a 3-man breakaway. He tucks his phone away and goes to talk to somebody about sorting out the paperwork.

He's still the first guy in, by like hours, so he goes to the gym. It's weird to try lifting weights now that he's actually had a shift. Lisa told him it was down to muscle composition but Connor gets through his whole work-out and he breaks a sweat but he's not tired or achy the way a really good work out leaves him.

He hops on the treadmill for a while and his phone beeps. He has a text from an unknown number.

_I'm sorry you were bitten but you'll be an awesome wolf. (this is dylan's mom by the way). Call me if you need anything. xx_

Connor texts back a 'Thank you Mrs Strome' but he can hear the boys start to filter into the locker room so he doesn't wait for an answer. He gets to the locker room just behind Naz who is bopping his head with his earphones in. Connor pokes him in the kidney and he shrieks like a little girl.

"Fucker!"

"Got work on that situational awareness, Naz," he slips by.

"Good to see you can't develop a sense of humour from getting bit," Naz bitches, shoulder-checking him lightly.

"Such sour grapes," Connor teases and they settle in a comfortable banter. It's nice to be able to just...think about hockey. It's the Bruins visiting tonight and the buzz in the locker room is about proving a point. More of the guys filter in and Oz thumps down into his locker. Connor nods to him and catches a whiff of his scent. It...okay, he's been a Wolf for about twenty four hours but even so, Oz doesn't smell right. Not for a Wolf. It's like smelling raspberries from a bunch of flowers.

Connor tries not to be obvious about it but he does sniff a little at Auston, who arrives with Mitch and both of them, well, it's morning practice and they haven't showered yet so they stink. But it's a stink that fits them.

Freddie — who doesn't stink — smells like Wolf.

It's not until they're actually on the ice, catching a break in shooting drills that Connor dares to bump Oz's shoulder.

"Da?"

"I have a question," Connor says.

Oz turns his head and Connor fiddles with his tape.

"You don't smell like Wolf," he blurts out.

"Am not a Wolf," Oz says. "Good to know that I smell right."

"Then-" Connor bites the rest of the question off. "Sorry. That's probably rude. Sorry."

"No, not rude," Oz smiles. "You're just puppy. Most Wolves know smell already. I'm Badger."

Connor blinks. "Like honey badger?"

"Yes," Oz nods.

"That is..." Connor shakes his head, "like, so appropriate."

"I know," Oz smirks at him. "Good to fit your own skin, yeah?"

"...I'll take your word for it." Connor shrugs, picking at the tape on his stick.

Oz bumps his shoulder. "Give it time. And play hard while you're working it out."

"You're the boss," Connor mock-salutes. "Well, the badger boss."

Oz tries to catch him in a headlock and they tussle until Babs blows his whistle and sends them racing down the ice. Connor manages to squeak his shot just under Mack's left pad and circles back around to the boards. Mitch is panting, leaning into the glass and looking across at where Naz has gone back to his preferred form of entertainment during training; baiting JT.

"Does Oz smell like funky to you?" Mitch asks and Connor bursts out laughing.

He stays in the ACC, takes his nap on one of the couches where no-one's going to bother him and steadfastly ignores his phone. He actually sleeps for a bit; the morning exercise wearing him out enough that even the million and one thoughts crowding his brain can't keep him awake.

He stays in the ACC, takes his nap on one of the couches where no-one's going to bother him and steadfastly ignores his phone. He actually sleeps for a bit; the morning exercise wearing him out enough that even the million and one thoughts crowding his brain can't keep him awake.

Connor's the first one down to the locker room that evening and he checks his equipment. There's a piece of paper in his helmet that flutters to the floor when he checks the straps. It's a sticker, he realizes. A stylized set of fangs, white against the blue of his helmet.

He's seen these stickers. It's illegal to oblige a Were to wear an identifying mark but lots of Weres chose to wear them, especially in hockey. Stromer's had one on the back of his helmet since peewee. Connor's noticed them but he doesn't really pay attention to things like that because when the guy in question is that close, he's either got the puck or is trying to get it off Connor. Connor's not sure what the etiquette for these is.

Freddie would know.

Connor rubs over the slightly raised pattern, then tucks it carefully into his locker before starting to pull on his pads. The locker room fills up and Connor mostly stays quiet. He knows the second Freddie steps into the room but he doesn't look up. 

Is that rude? He doesn't know how the protocol works. Lisa only talked about that first meeting and Connor fucked that up. He weighs up his options and decides to wait until Freddie has his gear on.

In the end, he gets like a couple of seconds.

"F-Freddie?" he's not expecting the way the locker room hushes up and immediately gets noisy again. Fuck it. "Um."

Freddie waves him over, standing there like a mountain in his pads. Connor holds up the sticker.

"I, uh, I was wondering where this goes?"

Freddie glances at the sticker and then looks back at Connor with inscrutable goalie eyes.

"You don't have to wear it," Freddie says. Connor can't read anything on his face or in his tone.

"I know," Connor says. "I want to. I just, I want to wear it right?"

Freddie just keeps looking at him but Connor keeps his chin up and doesn't say anything else. Finally Freddie nods and pulls off his gloves. He holds out his hand and Connor surrenders the sticker. He plants a hand on the side of Connor's helmet and Connor doesn't resist when Freddie tips his head to the side. He manages not to flinch when Freddie's fingers brush his neck. There's a sticky sound and Freddie nods.

Connor dips his head, just about holding in the shiver from feeling Freddie's fingers shift against his neck. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Freddie drops his hand and Connor feels a little robbed when Freddie turns back to pick up his gloves.

They hit the ice and the stadium lights up, deafeningly loud by fans who are just as psyched to have hockey back as the team is. Connor skates loops as the announcer's voice booms out from the speakers and he loops by mid-ice. He catches a brief jumble of smells from the opposition and as he's gliding away, he sees Rask's eyes flash in the dim light.

One Were for sure, Connor thinks. He's pretty sure that Chara is Were but oddly, he doesn't think Marchand is.

The refs skate onto the ice and Connor makes his way back to the bench. As they're standing for the anthem, Mo nudges him in the back.

"What were you doing?"

"I was curious," Connor whispers back. "If Marchand came by his ratty ways honestly."

There's a burst of sniggering and coughing before the anthem kicks in and Connor feels his mind go clear and focused on hockey.


	3. Chapter 3

The game starts fast and frantic and Connor's first few shifts start with a mad scramble over the boards. They're nearly halfway through the period before Connor gets called to take a face-off. Chara is circling the face-off dot as Bergeron skates up, making a grumbly sound in his throat. It's not growling but it makes Connor's shoulders prickle.

He sets himself and the ref doesn't call it. The first try gets called back and now it sounds like half of them growl. Connor just squares his shoulder and wins the puck-drop clean. He gets a good shot that Rask somehow sees through like a four guy screen. He gets back to the bench and JT pats him on the back.

"Way to not let them fuck with you, Brownie!"

Connor gets through the rest of the game okay. It gets harder to stay focused as it gets noisier and his energy starts to run out. He's squinting into the lights by the start of the third and he checks a Bruin forward a little harder than he means to.

"Brownie, you good?" Babs asks and Connor nods.

Mitch has his head down, panting hard and his hand braced against the edge of the boards. He smells like sweat and bitter dust and Marty keeps patting him on the back. Connor jostles him as he drops onto the bench and Mitch glances up. His eyes are gleaming gold.

The last five minutes of the game are nuts. It's just the preseason but both teams are playing like it's the playoffs. At that kind of speed, guys are getting blown after less than a minute and the lines are changing every thirty seconds.

Naz leads them over the boards with less than a minute to go. It's 1-0, testament to both goalies playing superbly but they're all determined to get Freddie the shut out to start the season the way they damn well mean to carry on. It's hectic as hell and they have to fight in the crease for basically the whole rest of the game.

By the final whistle, Connor's half-convinced Marchand's stick is actually lodged in his rib-cage. 

He's still breathing hard when he joins the Freddie congratulations line. He doesn't have enough time to panic before Freddie's dipping his head to knock their helmets together.

"Sweet shutout," Connor pats at his shoulder. "Fucking nice, man."

Freddie actually smiles and Connor skates off for the showers. The boys are loud, happy and Connor can just sit in his stall and soak it in. Mitch is being a little quieter than normal but he's bantering with Marty and Auston's kinda circling back and forth from his stall and Freddie's. 

Babs comes through, takes fifteen minutes to say 'Good job.' and 'We'll be working on stuff next practice.' and goes away again. Exhaustion starts catching up with him as the adrenaline ebbs and really, he just wants to go the fuck home to bed. Thankfully, most of the guys are beat — it's been a long night, so there's no team-wide plans to go out.

Connor gets changed and goes back to his car without having to actually talk to anyone. He drives home, leaves his phone in his living room and goes to bed. There's something so comforting about the feel of his own bedclothes and the quiet of his apartment might not be as quiet as he remembers it, but at least Connor knows that it's his fridge making that humming sound.

He wakes up the next morning feeling sore and tired. Nothing in his kitchen looks tasty so he goes out, slouching in an oversized hoodie with a team cap pulled over his hair. He doesn't really have a plan, finds a greasy spoon diner down a small street and eats three servings of breakfast.

He drops Stromer a text and they chat back and forth over the day as Connor works through his wardrobe to see if Stromer was bs-ing him about the touch test. He's starting to convince himself that it is just bs when he gets to his second game day suit. He actually pulls his hand back - it's like sandpaper against his fingertips — and texts Stromer a completely-out-of-context apology.

Thankfully, most of his work-out clothes pass the feel test but he has to retire three pairs of jeans because he can actually smell the dye and it makes his nose itch. It takes the whole day to check his apartment with the one bright spot being when he does some vacuuming and finds out that he has no desire to growl at it or jump on the couch.

Connor goes back to bed and then he goes to practice, grabs lunch with Hyms and he goes home to bed. It's not the most exciting way to live but Connor can live with that. He settles into the practice-sleep groove for the last ten days of the pre-season and it's fine.

They get to start the season with the home opener and the Bruins are back in town. The whole city seems to be out and about and there are actual cops at the entrance to the players' car park. The locker room is buzzing already and Babs comes to confirm the lines.

Naz whacks at his shinpads with his stick. "Just like we practiced, huh, Brownie?"

"Yeah," Connor rubs his thumb over the sticker on the back of his helmet before he pulls it on. 

The crowd is electrifying, roaring loud enough that the ice shakes under his skates. Connor raises a hand when the spotlight finds him and the announcer thunders "Number 28, Connorrrr Brrrown!" 

The Bruins are skating tight little loops around their net, barely bothering with any of the pucks. The anthem is excruciating — Connor feels like he's going to vibrate right out of his skates with the need to move. Babs sends out Patty's line to start and Connor drums his fingers on his stick as everyone gets in place.

It's almost like the off-season didn't happen; from the first whistle, both teams bring it. Mitch crashes the net, Rask manages to glove it and then it's coming back up the ice. That's the only play Connor really gets to look at. The next puck drop and his line goes over the boards.

Babs is sending them out against the Bergeron line for their sins. It means that Connor gets to try and shut down Marchand. Marchand clearly had himself a good summer because he's in fine form. The butt of his stick is planted just up under Connor's floating rib. Every time Connor gets the puck, he has to try and dance around Marchand's foot and his stick.

And of course, he's just running his mouth, like he always does. Connor learnt back in his rookie season that the worst thing you can do is actually listen. Give the guy any reaction and he'll never stop.

Connor's not the biggest guy on his line but he's big enough and fast enough to bowl Marchand right the fuck over if he gets the chance. As the game goes on and they manage to hold Pastarnak and Bergeron to less than three shots between them. Marchand doesn't get any and it's really starting to get to him. Which means he starts trying to get to Connor.

Connor's temper is starting to fray. He keeps his head down, trying to breathe out the fiery rage that's bubbling under his ribs while he's on the bench. He keeps flexing his hands, into fists, out, in, out.

Naz leans in during one of the tv stoppages. "You all right, Brownie?"

"Marchand's trying to get under my skin," Connor admits. 

"Just focus on beating him to the puck," Naz says. "Don't fall for it."

"I won't," Connor says. He isn't fucking stupid. He knows he can't lose his temper. There are words for Wolves who go berserk at non-Wolves; words like 'rabid'. He even knows that at least half of the rage he's feeling is new instincts. 

It doesn't help. 

They get sent out again, about halfway through the second and Connor beats Marchand to the puck in the corner. He snaps it back up the ice and goes to turn. Marchand's stick slams into his ribs. All the air goes out of his lungs. He barely feels Marchand's foot hook his ankle. 

He's too close to the boards to just fall. Instead, they both go down messily. Connor lands on his shoulder, head smacking the ice. It honestly feels like Marchand's stick has gone through his side. There's a split-second of shock before the world catches up with a snarl.

Marchand's weight disappears as the light dims. Connor is too busy gasping desperately for air to see exactly what happens next but there's a thunder of sound and by the time he manages to get air in his lungs, there's a brawl in progress. He has a ref crouching over him.

"Are you alright? Do you need a trainer?"

Connor's trying to shake his head and get his skates under him all at once when Hainsey comes up.

"Okay, Brownie?"

"Peachy," Connor manages before he has to drop his head to breathe. "Gimme a hand up."

Hainesy hooks his elbow as the refs break the brawl up and Connor manages to skate to the bench with Hainesy's help. Gards helps him onto the bench and keeps a hand on his shoulder. The trainer starts all the rapid-fire questions and Connor just waves him away and keeps his head down as he tries to catch his breath.

He gets his head back up just as the guys start sitting back down, muttering darkly. 

"Fucking bullshit."

"Asshole."

JT is chewing at his mouth-guard but he looks pissed. Connor looks up in time to see Naz and Andreas being shepherded to one penalty box and Pasternak and some rookie being herded into the other.

Marchand is skating towards his own bench, chin on his shoulder as he complains to the ref who has a hand fisted in his jersey. Freddie is standing in front of his net, radiating murder. 

They show the hit on the jumbotron and Connor winces. It certainly looks nasty and he can see why what looked like every Leaf on the ice went after Marchand. He doesn't get to see what the penalties are because he has to go down the tunnel for concussion protocol.

It takes the rest of the period to convince them that no, really, he's fine so he has to go to the locker room rather than right back out. 

Naz claps him on the back as soon as he sees him. "We fucking scored! Twice."

"Cool," Connor says, grabbing up a water bottle. Mitch bumps down beside him, smiling wide.

"They're going to pissed when you come back out - Marchand's done for the night," Mtich jostles his shoulder. "Gotta make 'em pay, right?"

"Yeah," Connor nods and then Babs is back in the room. It's hard to argue with a 3-zip lead but Babs talks a lot about closing the game out, not losing focus. It's mostly boilerplate coach talk, the sort of thing that Connor's been hearing since he was old enough to strap on his own skates.

They get to the "ra-ra-go!" part and Connor pushes up to join the shuffling line of players. Freddie's waiting at the door and he catches Connor by the shoulder.

"You good, Brownie?"

"If they sent off Marchand, I'm superb." Connor says. It feels a little clunky, trying to rediscover his banter under Freddie's unreadable gaze.

"Don't push yourself too hard." Freddie orders and Connor nods.

The last period is tetchy — the Bruins are poking and snowing and all the petty little bullshit that shows how much they hate losing. Freddie is continuing his impression of the Great Wall and Connor's back to watching the game rather than playing.

Coach finally sends him over the boards on Patty's wing to shut out the last couple of minutes. Connor winds up with McEvoy at his shoulder and really, he's not expecting trouble There's less than a minute on the clock, the game's pretty much over and Connor's trying to remember if he has any ice packs in his fridge.

"-ucking diva moon-bitch," McEvoy says and Connor stiffens. He might only have been a were for a week but you don't play professional sports without learning a lot of bad words.

He can't help the growl that ripples up his throat.

McEvoy startles at his side but Connor doesn't look at him. He can't stop growling but he can keep it quiet enough that McEvoy is the only one who hears it. He isn't expecting Chara to look over at them but he's not getting into a staring match with the fucking Bruins.

The ref drops the puck, oblivious to the growing tension. Patty gets the puck across to him and Connor sends it sailing down the ice. If he knocks McEvoy off balance doing it, well, fuck it. Connor's not a saint.

There's a little more scrimmaging and the final horn blares as the crowd erupts.

Connor is prickly with the insult and he bites his lip, trying to flatten out the growling before he joins the line to give Freddie his helmet-tap. He's mostly got it - it's harder than he thought because growling isn't like talking, it just happens.

Freddie looks at him a little longer than Connor's entirely comfortable with but he doesn't say anything. Connor goes back to the locker room and straight into the showers. He didn't score or anything so he doesn't need to hang out for the media. The sounds of the showers mean no-one hears him growl to himself until it gets easy to let his throat relax and just go quiet.

He dresses and he's just doing up his laces when Patty calls his name.

"Yeah?"

"You, uh, you got someone who wants to talk to you," Patty looks over at where Freddie is unlacing his leg pads. "It's Chara."

Connor feels his jaw go slack and if it had been anyone else, he would have thought they were fucking with him. That's not Patty's style, though.

"You want me to tell him to leave?" Patty asks.

"Nah," Connor manages to tie a sort of knot in his laces and stands up. "I'll talk to him."

Chara, who somehow looks even bigger in his gameday suit than he does in skates, is indeed waiting for him in the corridor. He has McEvoy with him. Without the game to distract him, Connor can actually look at Chara as a Were. He was one of the first hockey players to be open about his status but it's still almost overwhelming to be in such a small space.

"Uh, hi?" Connor goes to pull the locker room door shut behind him but a hand catches it and Freddie, still half in his gear with a towel around his neck, steps out into the corridor.

Chara and he exchange a long, considering glance.

Then Chara pushes McEvoy forward a little. "Charlie wants to say he is sorry."

"Y-yeah," McEvoy is miserably flushed and his scent is pretty prickly. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking and it was a bad thing to say."

"Oh," Connor hesitates. He doesn't want to say that it's okay because it's not really. He relaxes involuntarily when Freddie puts a hand on his shoulder. "Everyone gets to make stupid mistakes, I guess. We're cool."

"I didn't realize you were-" McEvoy makes a flailing gesture that is probably meant to mean 'Wolf'. "I was just frustrated."

"I had not noticed the change in your scent," Chara says, all careful Old-World formality. "That was my oversight, I apologise."

"That's fine," Connor says. "I-, it's new."

Chara breathes in deliberately and frowns. "Then you have my condolences."

"Thanks," Connor says, a little breathless from the way Freddie's hand tightens. 

"I really am sorry," McEvoy says. "I'll buy you dinner when you're in Boston in October to make it up."

"Sure?" Connor glances over his shoulder and Freddie nods. "See you then?"

He winds up trading numbers with McEvoy which is a little weird but Freddie is a silent tower of support and he and Chara do that weird nonverbal talking thing and Connor gets to go back into the locker room just in time for Mitch to jump him.

"We're going the fuck out, boys!"

Connor wants to protest, and he tries, but Mitch is immovable. They are going out and Connor leaves his keys with the nice ladies at the arena and lets Mitch cram him into an Uber with Hyms, Kappy and Auston.

He's not really looking forward to this, he just wants to eat his own weight in wings and burgers, ice his poor ribs and sleep. But it is nice to see the guys so jazzed up so Connor just lets himself be carried along with the crowd.

The bar is hell. Connor wedges himself on the inside of the booth and mostly nurses a beer while the boys cut loose around him. He mostly just texts Stromer and McEvoy (who has sent him a plaintive text asking for directions to any coffee shop that might be open in the airport). It's slightly surreal really but Connor also finds himself as the designated driver for Kappy, Zach, Mitch and Andreas.

Hyms is the last one out and he comes around to lean against the driver side door and peer at Connor.

"You-you sure y'okay, Brownie?"

"I'm fine, dude," Connor says. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay," Zach nods with the careful deliberateness of the truly plastered. "But y'know y'can call me, right?"

"Yeah, yeah," Connor rolls his eyes. "Do you need me to get you to your front door?"

"'m good," Hyms pats him clumsily on the cheek and wobbles his way across the pavement to vanish into his apartment building. Connor tracks the sound of his footsteps and actually hears the ding of the elevator. It's kinda cool and Connor turns the key and pulls out.

He has to spend an hour with the trainers the next day. Apparently they've been itching to see how much better he heals now and he gets a lot of awkward questions that don't really make sense until he realizes they're trying to ask if he's shifted recently.

Connor says no, honestly. He was tired. His parents have apparently signed him up for some fucked up mailing list targeting people who don't want to be Wolves. Connor's mail slot was practically bursting at the seams.

Probably he shouldn't have read any of the leaflets but he'd wanted so hard to find some evidence that his parents haven't lost their minds. He knows that the bite can't be reversed. He double-checked on Google. He's going to be a Wolf for the rest of his life. Connor's just more worried about what that means.

Some of the leaflets, the cheap ones, were just bullshit. Stuff like 'Wolves are really vampires!!!!', 'Lunar madness!!' and 'Weres are the foot soldiers of the Illuminati!'? Connor can laugh that off. It's the more respectable-looking ones that worry him.

Connor gets a workout schedule and told to take the day. 

He goes back to his apartment, stacks the flyers that he's worrying about on his desk and fires up Google. He's hoping for quick links to articles debunking all this shit but all he can find are reddit pages and the occasional random blog post. Connor tries looking for 'Were history' and one of the top three results is a serious attempt to date Red Riding Hood as an origin myth from European Were culture.

It's an actual article from Harvard. Connor tries to read it but there's a lot about the 'borderline Freudian implications' about the red cloak that just makes him uncomfortable. He gives up after an hour of poking around the internet in the desperate hope of finding something that says 'being a Were is a bit confusing but you'll be fine'.

He'd take a Facebook community at this point. He's not proud. But the non-crackpot links are all to closed communities and Connor isn't sure he's ready to out himself just yet. Definitely not without more to go on than a name on a link.

The next morning, he goes to Lisa's office and asks for her help.

"Well, I'm here to help," Lisa says with a smile. "What do you need?"

"I, uh, the trainers said that I'd heal better if I shifted but I, um," Connor waves his hands weakly, "I don't know how to?"

"Oh, of course!" Lisa says. "I'd be happy to help. Do you want to start now?"

"Please?" Connor tries to smile. "I just..I'd like to feel like I know what I'm doing."

"That's very understandable," Lisa assures him. "There's a room free down in the training area. I would suggest you change into some loose clothes, maybe get a spare set from the trainers and bring a couple of bottles of water. It's not unusual to run a mild fever after shifting and you'll probably be sweaty."

"Okay," Connor goes down to talk to the trainers who are happy to give him a set of sweats and a t-shirt that's way too big for him. The medical staff are happy to hear that he's going to be shifting but they echo what Lisa said about the fever, just in about five times as many words.

The quiet room is a medium sized room with carpet that feels pleasantly squishy under his toes and doesn't smell of anything much. There's an air-conditioner humming in the window and the light feels softer than the fluorescents outside.

"It's natural light bulbs," Lisa confirms when she arrives. "There are five quiet rooms in the ACC, plus two null rooms for visiting teams. It's been designed to be as easy on shifted senses as possible. This room is a null room as well — it's designed to be as neutral as possible. Once you start discovering what you prefer as a wolf, you can choose one of the other rooms to shift in when you want to shift."

"That seems...complicated," Connor admits and Lisa smiles. 

"It's all backed up by science but it does make sense if you think about it. A room that smells of a wolf pack would be stressful to a feline or avian. It's not rational but it's easier to just mitigate the instinctive reaction than trying to logic it away."

"oh."

"You'll find it easier to change if you feel secure in the room," Lisa says. "The easiest way to reach that point is just to wander around until you're comfortable."

"Uh, okay?" Connor kinda shuffles in a loose circle around the room. He's not sure how he's supposed to 'feel secure'. There's a knot of tension pulling tight between his shoulder blades and he keeps hunching his shoulders forward, trying to work it out. He finds it easier to breathe through his nose than his mouth even if he's not actually smelling anything except for Lisa's perfume.

He's also really aware of the silence, yawning open between them. It's like he has somewhere he needs to be but he's forgotten where or why. It's just the sort of low level nagging worry that he feels when he's forgotten to put his laundry in the machine before running out to training.

He just can't think of anything he hasn't gotten to that would be bugging him like this. He's still shrugging his shoulders because the tension in his shoulders is starting to feel more like an itch. 

"Connor?" Lisa calls quietly and Connor jerks his head up, suddenly back to the present. She holds up her hands. "I think you're very close to a shift. I need you to just relax a little. It's better if you just let it happen - you are trying to shift but it's a very hard thing to consciously control when you don't really know how it works. Your best chance is just letting it happen."

Connor rolls his shoulders again and bobs his head. He can't find the distracted focus he had before — it feels like there are ants, or spiders, marching across his skin, just a constant maddening prickle that he can't scratch. He tries pacing around the room again but his concentration is shot. It's like the last ten minutes of a really long practice he knows enough to know that he's not going to regain his focus.

"I don't think it's working," he says at last, after he's tried and failed to find something like the concentration Lisa was talking about.

"That's okay," Lisa puts a hand on his shoulder and Connor has to fight down the urge to jerk away. "You can totally try again back in your apartment. That might even be easier, in your own territory."

"Okay," Connor kinda wants to start pacing again. He's feeling fidgety, a little punch-drunk like he's woken up too early.

"You're doing really well," Lisa repeats.

Connor ducks his head and goes to change. He's sweat-sticky, not like he's been seriously working out but enough to suggest that he's been doing something. He wants a shower and suddenly, he wants his own clothes. There's a faint note of something in the smell of the clothes he's wearing, like a sour sort of bleach.

It's making his nose itch and Connor can feel a growl rattling around in his throat. He ducks back into the dressing rooms to change, scrubbing off the thin layer of sweat with a towel and pulling on his own clothes. He's lucky enough that there's no-one around when he makes his way to his car and unlucky enough that he hits some nasty traffic on the way home.

By the time Connor gets home and gets the door closed behind him, he's almost shaking with the need to hit something or run. He feels like he just got boarded and didn't get a whistle. He pulls off his clothes on his way to the bathroom and ducks under the shower for like a minute because he doesn't like the way the water feels on his skin. He paces around the apartment in his shorts until he feels tired enough to go to bed.

Connor doesn't sleep well and he wakes up with his blankets knotted around him, feeling like he's barely closed his eyes. He has to book it to make practice in time, no chance for breakfast and he's still pulling on his jersey as he hurries onto the ice. Babs is frowning down at his clipboard and doesn't notice.

Naz comes over to bump shoulders. "You look like a zombie."

"Thanks Naz," Connor grumbles. "I can always count on you to make me feel pretty."

"Oh, you're still pretty," Naz pats him on the helmet. Connor swats at him and then Mo is calling them in to start the warm-ups.

Practice is good. Babs isn't pushing them too hard, thanks to the win, but he's not happy with zone entry. So, lots of drills. Mostly it's the defencemen getting rode but Connor gets bowled over enough that he's achy all over when they start working on sprints.

His rib is still bugging him and he pulls up a little in the last few sprints. Babs eyes him consideringly and Connor tries to straighten up more. Babs doesn't send him off but he also doesn't send him up the ice again.

Mitch skates over and flops half into Connor and half into the boards. "You wanna come grab lunch with me?"

"Hi, Mitch," Connor deadpans. "How are you?"

"Fucking hungry," Mitch says without missing a beat. "I swear, I haven't been this hungry since I was like fourteen."

"I'm not sure I can afford to feed you that much," Connor jokes.

"Fuck no, dude," Mitch waves a hand. "I'm buying."

"...okay," Connor tips his head. "Now I'm worried."

"I pay some of the time," Mitch huffs. "But come on, man, you've been, like, hermitting it up and I wanna hang."

"Sure," Connor says, a little touched despite himself. "You have a preference for where we go?"

"I was thinking that place, fuck, the little dinner with the huge-ass burgers," Mitch nearly drops his stick as he gesticulates. "You know the one you took us to last year?"

"Sandy's?" Connor nods. It's not _haute cuisine_ or anything but it's a nice little family restaurant. His dad used to bring them there for dinner when they were in the city proper and it's one of Connor's cheat day favourites. "Yeah, that sounds good."

"What are you guys talking about?" Kappy slides in on Connor's other side. 

"Lunch," Connor says.

"Oooh, what are you guys thinking for lunch?"

"We're going to grab burgers," Mitch says, bumping up against Connor as he leans around to talk to Kappy. 

"Sounds cool," Kappy says. "Can I come?"

"Maybe next time," Mitch says before Connor can say anything.

Kappy blinks then shrugs. "Cool."

Connor looks at Mitch who is a little pinker and staring out at where Matty and Leo are scrimaging for the puck. He doesn't say anything for a second but he does nudge Mitch's shoulder before he pushes away from the boards. "Looks like we're up, boys."

Babs sends them scrambling to try and snatch the puck from each other. It's half-drill, half-play and Connor laughs as Mitch tries (and utterly fails) to muscle JT off the puck. The play breaks down into a mock line brawl when Connor tries to wade in and he winds up holding off Naz and Gards while they're all laughing like luantics.

Connor's still smiling when he gets into the showers. It was a good, solid practice that's left him with the pleasant ache in his muscles and the boys are still going back and forth with each other. It's the most normal Connor's felt since that night in the hospital and he's feeling good.


	4. Chapter 4

Freddie hasn't come off the ice by the time Connor gets done with his shower. Some of the guys, the non-weres, are talking about having a drink. Auston is kinda floating around the door with a towel around his shoulders. JT is just sitting in his stall, watching the door. Connor thinks that they must be waiting for Freddie . Mitch pops up with his hair still wet as Connor is pulling on a hoodie. "Ready to go dude?"

"Yeah, totally. Wanna take my car?"

"If that's cool with you?" Mitch kinda shrugs, jiggling about in place.

"Dude, how are you not dead?" Connor complains and Mitch grins at him.

"I'm gonna eat so many burgers, dude, _then_ I'm gonna sleep."

"Well, it's always good to have a plan," Connor tries to mimic Coach's intonation and Mitch cracks up. They go out to the cars, still poking at each other. Mitch straps in while talking about how much he's looking forward to the next game.

Connor waits until they're stuck in traffic (which takes like a minute) before he glances over at Mitch and says "So, what's so serious that you didn't want Kappy to tag along?"

Mitch goes pink again and he waves his hands. "Okay, so this is going to sound kinda weird and I have, like, no idea why but it's just- it is, okay?"

"That makes no sense," Connor says after a minute. "What are you talking about?"

"Okay, so!" Mitch twists around so he's kinda facing Connor. "First off, I owe you like, so much more than a lunch. You saved my ass, Brownie, and I owe you."

"It's-"

"Don't even fucking try that 'it's no big deal', okay?" Mitch pokes him in the arm. "I'm not going to make a big deal but. Thank you, okay?"

"Okay," Connor nods and there's like the mandatory moment of silence for emotions being expressed before Mitch starts up again.

"And like, I kinda wanna talk about this-" he gestures between them "-whole Biting thing. I mean Matts has been cool but there's a lot of stuff that I don't think he gets? Like I'm not saying being a Wolf is bad, okay? But it's different and I don't know, every time I try to say something, he kinda talks like I'm being a jerk? I don't know all the shit about my 'wolf instincts' because I haven't had them, you know?"

"Yeah," Connor says, drumming his fingers on the wheel. "You know there's like fuck all on Google about being a Bitten Wolf?"

"Dude, fucking tell me about it!" Mitch flails. "I spent like ten hours searching Google and there's all this weird bullshit about it but there's like nothing real?"

"I found a load of links to Facebook groups and shit," Connor admits, "but they're all locked and..."

"It's kinda weird trying to talk to a stranger?" Mitch says. "I mean, I told Stromer 'cause like, he's always been chill and it helped, you know? I mean, like even on the pamphlets they give out, the guys in the photos all look like, weird?"

"Yeah," Connor thinks the abs on the guy who was on the front of the Canadian Lycanthrope Association's pamphlet. Connor's a professional athlete, who spends his days surrounded by other professional athletes in peak condition and he's never seen abs like that in real life. "I wanted to complain when I didn't magically get abs like that."

Mitch cracks the fuck up, giggling like a kid and Connor smiles.

"Yeah, I mean, fucking false advertising!" Mitch shrugs. "But I dunno, there's just something? I asked Patty and he talked to Freddie and he said that you were like kinda my first packmate? And that if I was getting worked up, I'd probably be better if I hung out with you? And I figured if I bribed you with good food, you'd be cool with it?"

"You don't actually need to bribe me to hang out with you, you know?" Connor is obliged to point out.

"Well, yeah," Mitch's scent brightens a little and he's kinda smiling, "but dude, trust me, I have been redefining the term 'hangry' since we did that first shift."

"Wow," Connor swings the car into a gap in the traffic. They talk about the changes in what they like to eat and how different everything can taste now. Mitch is complaining about how he can't eat jerky anymore when they finally step into the diner. The diner smells good. Like really good.

Mitch is talking about how he had the most awesome bacon ever at a family barbeque this one time when the waitress comes up with a smile.

"You boys can just sit where you like, we're not that busy this afternoon."

She gives them some well-loved menus and they sit in a booth. Mitch looks at the list of burgers and sighs.

"Probably shouldn't like order everything on the menu, right?"

"Not unless you want Coach to skate you through the foundations," Connor laughs.

They order fine, and they're mostly shooting the shit about the guys who played with them in the minors. It's nothing big, just the little 'Oh Hanny's getting serious about his girl.' 'Lucas is still on the IR.' things. Connor doesn't even notice when Mitch says something about McCloud and his pack. It's just regular everyday stuff but Connor is opening his mouth when he hears "Excuse me!" from behind them.

It's been a really good day, so honest to god, Connor thinks it's a fan. He might not be a big name but Mitch's time on the advertisement circuit means that he's almost sure to be recognized if they're in public. He turns around and there's this older guy, a former high school football player kinda guy, who is just straight up fucking glaring at them.

"Excuse me!" the guy is snapping his fingers at the waitress, which is just fucking rude. "I want your manager!"

The waitress looks baffled but she comes over. "Is there a problem?"

"You need to make _them_ leave," the guy doesn't even look at them but there's something in his voice that makes Connor want to growl.

"I'm sorry?" The waitress looks horrified. She is going to get such an awesome tip, Connor thinks.

"This is an eating establishment," the dickhead says, "no animals allowed!"

"Excuse me?" Connor's voice comes out deep but he's not growling. Mitch has his mouth snapped shut and he looks ...small. Connor is fucking furious.

The guy jerks his head around so he's looking away from Connor completely. Connor looks at the waitress who is just...she looks a little like a goldfish. Connor looks at the two people who are sitting on the other side of the table. They look uncomfortable but he can't tell if they're uncomfortable with what the dickhead just said or just that he's making a scene.

Connor's past fucking caring. He just looks at them and says "I think you need to leave."

That makes the dickhead puff up but Conor just keeps talking over him. Connor's gone toe-to-toe with a pissed-off Zdeno Chara. He's not afraid of some asshole in a knockoff suit.

Instead he turns to the waitress and says "Would you mind getting them some boxes to go? I'll pay for it."

"Sure!" The waitress bolts. Connor doesn't blame her. He turns to the dickhead.

"I don't know what your problem is, I don't care what your problem is," he doesn't move forward but he kinda plants himself and sure, he's on the scrawny side...for a hockey player. He can see the moment the dickhead realizes how big Connor actually is. There's a cold bitter tinge to his scent. "But if your parents didn't teach you how to behave, you shouldn't be coming out in public without them."

The guy sputters but he's starting to smell like-like watching a breakaway and knowing you won't get back in time. Connor thinks of brittle ice and grey slush. The smell makes his gums itch. The guy's friend keeps his head down. The dickhead puffs up his chest and Connor growls, low and soft enough that it barely vibrates in his throat. The guy slides back into his seat.

Connor just keeps staring at him while the waitress comes running up with boxes. He doesn't see what happens with the food, just sees the group getting up and leaving. He keeps watching, softly growling, until they're out the door and it's closed behind them. Then he breathes out and turns to the waitress.

"I'm so sorry about that."

"Oh, hon, no!" The waitress shakes her head. "I'm sorry. That was just-...I mean, what a jackass."

"Yeah," Connor feels kinda rude but, hey, she's not wrong. He looks over at Mitch. "You still okay to eat?"

"Uh, yeah," Mitch shakes his head and breaks out into a wide grin. "Dude, that was kinda awesome."

"Really?"

"Not the jackass bit," Mitch grins. "Coach'd be so proud. Look at you being all mature and stuff. I wanted to bite the fucker. Like, small-b bite."

They order burgers but Connor's appetite isn't in it. He eats, because he needs the food, but he's kinda freaking out. What if the guy calls the cops? What if he calls the media? Just the thought makes his stomach hurt. Connor's not ready to be outed. He's not sure he's ready to be a Wolf yet but the universe isn't giving him a choice on that one.

Mitch chats relentlessly and Connor appreciates that it's all superficial shit. He can't really think of anything. It's like his brain is full of steel wool and he feels like he's under the lights in the ACC in just his jock and socks. He wants to go home. He wants to check for trending topics on twitter.

He pays for their meal and for the dickhead's and leaves a couple of twenties on top of that. Then he drives Mitch back to his place and goes home. He collapses onto his sofa and finally takes out his phone.

There's a message from his brother, which Connor reads two words of and just nope, nope, he's not going to explain why he's not talking to their parents tonight. He can't be sure that they've even explained why they're not talking.

There's some chatter on the team chat, a couple of guys talking on the ex-Otters chat and a voice-mail from his mom.

Connor contemplates just going to bed but the itch under his skin is back and he wants to be able to shift. He doesn't want to have to go back to that room that smelled of nothing and walk in circles until something happens. He doesn't think that Lisa is going to help. So, really, he only has one other option.

_CBrown: hey, u around?  
DStrome: yeah. sry. had to school some guys at cotd  
CBrown: np. just a question.  
DStrome: k?  
CBrown: how do i shift?_

His phone rings. Connor sighs and accepts the call.

"How do you not know how to shift?" Dylan demands.

"I just ...don't?" Connor tips back to sprawl out on his back. "I was asleep the one and only time I've actually changed and I don't remember it."

"What the fuck is your co-ordinator doing?" Stromer sounds genuinely pissed.

"She's trying," Connor rolls his shoulders. "It's just not clicking."

"Maybe," Stromer still sounds pissy, "but the longer you put it off, the harder it's gonna be. This is where the whole scare thing comes from - you get all knotted up and you panic. It's bullshit."

"Okay, but I still need to know how to shift," Connor points out.

Stromer hums thoughtfully. "Okay, it's kinda hard to describe - it's like, imagine you're trying to explain how it feels to get a clean breakaway to someone who's just put on their first pair of skates."

"Not helpful," Connor complains.

"Gimme a sec," Stromer huffs, "I'm just setting up the context here. Basically, you kinda already know how to shift. What you need to learn is how to control it. That's the bit that takes practice. My mom always says there are two states of mind that help with shifting; fear and fancy."

"What?"

"Basically, you'll shift instinctively if you're threatened 'cause fangs and claws beat human hands, or you'll shift if you're safe and content. So if you're not comfortable in the coordinator's office or whatever, you won't shift unless you get spooked." Stromer explains. "So really, trying it when you're at home is probably best. Try thinking yourself into it?"

"Still not helping," Connor says in a sing-song.

"Look, Connor, dude." Stromer sounds exasperated. "You aren't a 'just wing it' kind of guy. You're a stubborn fucker. You aren't going to just let the shift happen and you'll just piss yourself off if you try so, don't try that. Try thinking about what's going to be different on paws, how you're going to move on four legs and all that."

"So, what like a visualization exercise?" Connor contemplates that and it actually sounds like something he might be able to do.

"Yeah," Stromer says, relieved. "Oh, one more thing."

"Yeah?"

"You won't be able to shift back right away," Stromer says it seriously. "It's not 'cause you're broken or stuck or any of that bullshit, okay? The shift's like...it's kinda like when you go to camp for the first day and you haven't adjusted to the workouts and you basically go home, stuff your face and fall over? It won't be like that forever but you're asking a lot of your body so don't try to change back too soon, okay?"

"Okay," Connor takes a deep breath. "Would it help to leave food out or anything?"

"You'd probably be okay with meat," Stromer says, "don't put out anything too processed or sugary, it'll just make you puke and trust me, puking with your nose turned up to wolf-level fucking sucks."

"Okay," Connor breathes for a second. "Okay, I can do this."

"Yeah, you can," Stromer says like it's just a fact. "C'mon Brownie, just like...think of it like a D-man who's trying to shove you off the puck!"

Connor bursts out laughing. He has this weird mental image of a wolf in full hockey gear trying to skate and it just cracks him up. Stromer's laughing too and they just wheeze down the line at each other for a couple of minutes before Connor can stop giggling long enough to wish Stromer a good night and hang up.

It's actually easier to face the idea of shifting. Stromer's a dick sometimes but Connor's always trusted him to be honest when he needed a critique. He gets up, pulls a package of ham out of his fridge and puts it on the coffee table. Then he goes around and checks _all_ his curtains are drawn tight.

Then, and only then, does he strip off his clothes. He's thinking that the feel of the clothes might be putting him off subconsciously or something. And naked as a human is embarrassing, but naked as a wolf is cool so maybe that will help. He sits on the floor, because he can't really sit on his couch naked if he ever wants to have visitors over again.

It's weird and Canadian and right now, it's the least of his worries.

Connor draws his knees up and tries to think like a wolf. He's not really sure where to start. He thinks about the other weres on the team and his mind settles on Freddie. He's never seen Freddie shift; it's an Old World thing, maybe? He'd seen how much JVR settled since Freddie joined the team and JVR wasn't the worst off on the team.

He doesn't actually know if the wolves on the team do anything together; it never shows up on Insta or Twitter, but it wouldn't, he doesn't think. Connor's never asked, never been invited and he wonders if Freddie is angry that he and Mitch are wolves now? He remembers that growling when he'd tried to submit and that's the only Were-thing he's tried to do around Freddie.

Has Connor been fucking this up? _Is_ Connor fucking this up? Freddie's not the most talkative guy but he'd have said something if Connor was fucking up, right? Freddie doesn't chat but he's gone off on the team a couple of times for shoddy play. Freddie wouldn't let Connor fuck up being a wolf.

He needs to figure out this whole mess around shifting. Connor tries to imagine what it would be like to be a wolf the way Stromer was talking about it. He tries to focus on the fact that he's done it before. Hell, he's literally done it in his sleep! He's got this.

Connor is so focused on trying to get his head in the game that he almost misses the moment of the shift. It's a click, like a popped joint snapping back into place; it's the moment your skates leave the ice and the breath rushes out of your lungs. That one clear second before the world hits him again.

The actual shift feels like a rush of warm blood through cold limbs and like a sneeze trying to escape through his skin instead of his nose. Connor feels like he's tripped over nothing but he lands on all fours.

It's fucking _weird_

The world isn't the right colour but there's all these details that he couldn't have seen that he just knows. His whole apartment is filled with smells and it's not nearly as gross as he thought it would be. There's just so much to smell!

Connor kinda loses the track of the evening. There's a lot of smelling to do and some of his cushions feel totally different under paws instead of hands. Also, he has awesome taste in carpet! (Well, the nice lady who did the interior for him has awesome taste in carpet but Connor said yes to it, so he's claiming partial credit.)

Those are the highlights.

The inevitable flip side shows up when Connor wakes up to discover he's using the packaging from his steaks as a pillow. Which is exactly as disgusting as it sounds. Connor peels it off his face and has a couple of seconds where he wonders if it's sticky from spit or from meat-juice. He decides he doesn't want to know and goes to throw it in the trash.

He doesn't have a trash can anymore. He might not have any trash bags any more. His kitchen is ankle deep in garbage and Connor just wants to close the kitchen door and seal away the faintly familiar scents of the packaging and other things. He doesn't feel sick so much as he feels like he should be feeling sick. 

Instead, because the clock in the kitchen is ticking ominously, Connor finds a miraculous garbage sack, sweeps everything that was on the floor into it, leaves it by the door so he'll remember to bring it down to the dumpster and goes to shower. He scrubs himself red-pink in a record five minutes and he's thumbing the stubble on his face when it occurs to him that maybe he should try shifting again.

It's only a second too late that Connor remembers Stromer's warning and he's already on paws at that point. The bathroom mostly smells of soap which Connor's wolfy instincts don't seem to really care about one way or another and that makes it easier for Connor to actually keep control of himself.

The bathroom's...it takes a minute to realize what's wrong. It's too small. There's barely enough room for him between the shower and the toilet. He noses his way out of the bathroom after he failed completely to paw it open. He's learning that there's a lot of physical stuff that he's better not overthinking. Connor's human brain is only required when he catches the scent of the bag of garbage and the urge to tear through the plastic with his teeth surges up.

Connor investigates a vaguely tasty smell under the couch, which turns out to be a dusty chip. Chewing is weird, it feels like the crumbs are just slipping out and it makes Connor very aware of how different his mouth is like this; there's nothing where he expects his cheeks to be. He keeps tipping his head ridiculously far over to keep the bits of chip in his mouth.

Also, fangs are shit at chewing; Connor can feel the points on the pieces of chip as he swallows them, all the way down his throat. He lets the last few crumbs fall out of his mouth and blinks. The couch is tipped up against the wall. Did he do that?

The more he thinks of it, the more weirded out he feels so Connor backs out of the main room. He goes into his bedroom because he wants to see what he looks like now. The video from that first night wasn't super detailed and Connor kinda of wants to know.

He's already getting a better sense of how big he is from walking around but he wants to see himself for himself. His wardrobe has a full length mirror and Connor sits in front of it and just looks. He's kinda huge in a way that doesn't really translate to his human brain. His perspective isn't really that different, so he must be about the same height.

Wolf-eyes means that he's not sure about the colours but he can see just how big his paws are, how long his tail is and the weird ruff of fur he has around his neck. He can also see exactly how big his teeth are when he yawns. It's a little jarring, feeling human fear in a wolf body and it kind of fizzles. It's like looking at the blades of his skates when they've been freshly sharpened and the trainer tells him to be careful. Just a moment of 'huh' and then life goes on.

There's also the way that Connor looks into those strange eyes and just sees himself looking back. It's hard to be scared of himself when his inner wolf is mostly focused on his trash and idle speculation on whether his ties are toys. There's no bloodlust, no ravenous need to feed, there's just Connor and some strange impulses.

He watches himself in the mirror until that gets boring and then he goes and looks for the tennis ball he's pretty sure he left in the living room. 

It's about an hour later, by Connor's best guess when he tries to shift back and it actually works. He's been trying on and off the whole time. Not being able to shift isn't painful, it's just like when he tries to overextend stiff muscles and he's not actually expecting to shift when it happens. So of course, he winds up buck-naked in the middle of his living room with a tennis ball in his mouth.

Connor's life, ladies and gentlemen.

Connor gets up, puts on clothes because naked as a human is still just awkward and checks his phone. There's no practice today and he doesn't really feel like going bar hopping or to a kids crafts day. Instead he goes to get his clubs and drives out to the golf course. It's a bit of a drive but Connor lets the radio play and winds the windows all the way down.

It's actually sunny, even if the wind has an icy promise of the fall and winter and Connor's feeling a little better. He's not worried about the wolf thing now. He's pretty sure that he has more to learn but he feels like it's now just going to be drills and practice. He's not afraid of shifting, even if his skin tingles and his muscles twitch in silent warning that it's too soon.

He gets his clubs out of his car, gets his shoes changed and just breathes in the air. It's so different here where the air smells mostly of grass than the air in the city and he can hear the wind catching the trees. He kinda feels like he could just run and feel the turf under his feet. 

Then Connor actually gets to tee off. He's playing solo today, privileges of being a Toronto pro player. Thank fuck for small mercies. He doesn't notice anything different as he actually sets his tee; he can see the guys playing ahead of him and the golf cart with the guys that'll be teeing off after him is coming up the path from the clubhouse. Connor's got fresh air and sunlight and he's humming as he draws back his swing.

It's a good hit, smooth and crisp and the little white ball goes flying up in arc. And Connor just about catches himself before he goes diving after it. It's a shocking surge of instinct and Connor does stumble. He has to catch his breath, the urge gone faster than it came.

He thinks it's just a one off. There's something about starting a game, that first swing, like stepping out onto fresh ice with new blades. He hauls his clubs down to where his ball is sitting in the middle of the greenway. 

Connor looks around as he changes clubs. No-one's watching him. The golf ball is just a golf ball. He shakes his head and sets his feet. The swing is perfect, with the perfect thwack against the ball. This time, Connor doesn't catch himself in time. His hand snaps out and he _catches the ball_.

For a second, he's just proud, blood singing in his veins and then his rational mind starts screaming at him. Connor drops the ball and his knees flex, like he's starting to go after it again. 

"Fucking hell," Connor says, staring down at his hands. He's not sure what the fuck is happening until he hears some-one shouting "Fore!" and the familiar sound of club against ball. The same rush of adrenaline floods his system but he's got just enough warning to clamp down hard on the impulse.

But he sees the ball come bouncing down the greenway. It comes up about thirty metres short which means that Connor just rocks in its direction rather than running forward. And really, Connor didn't need the additional proof but there it is.

He grabs his ball and books it off the course. He doesn't relax until he's sitting in his car, breathing in deep and fighting the urge to back out after the sound of balls being hit and knocked into the distance. Instead he goes home, changes and hits the treadmill.

He's still a little wound up the next morning when they have a light training session before video review and a game against the Sens. Connor's almost grateful for the typically hellish Leaf schedule with five games in nine days before they start the Western Canada road-trip. Right now, hockey is the uncomplicated part of Connor's life.

Mitch winds up in the seat next to him, all nervous energy and bounce. Connor could almost feel sorry for the Senators because Mitch is at his best when he's full of energy.

"Hey, Brownie!" Mitch bumps shoulders with him. "All ready for the big game?"

"It's the Senators," Connor points out because c'mon.

"Yeah, but hockey!"

"...okay," Connor nods and Mitch beams at him. Then Babs arrives and everyone focuses on the video. It's all pretty standard for this early in the season. The Senators are coming off a shit season so they're basically playing with the roster and they have a lot of new guys.

Babs talks a lot about how Ottowa has been really strong offensively and how they can't give them an opening or they'll exploit it. He also talks about not allowing breakaways because there's a couple of guys up from juniors who are fast. Connor watches the video of Ottawa's power play and leans over to Naz.

"So, I'm taking Karlson?"

"Yeah, probably," Naz shrugs. "He's the only one consistently scoring."

"Don't let him bully," Oz chimes in from Naz's other side. "Likes to show his teeth, be a jerk."

"Okay," Connor says a little more slowly.

"European wolf," Oz says, like he's explaining everything. Connor steals a glance at Mitch who looks equally baffled.

"...I don't get it," Connor says and Oz frowns.

"European wolf is not American wolf, not shy, you know?"

Before Connor can admit that he still doesn't get it, there's a sigh from like right behind him. Connor's head snaps around and he's looking up at Freddie.

"What Oz's trying to say is that European wolves are more usually more aggressive," Freddie says. "American wolves are shyer, but most european Wolves descend from man-eaters. If you try to intimidate Karlsson, he'll probably just get more aggressive and pushy."

"Oh, okay," Connor nods. "Gotcha."

Freddie looks down at him and half-shrugs. "It's the sort of thing you grow up knowing if you're Born. Sometimes we forget that it's not instinctive. If you don't understand something, you can ask."

"Thank you," Connor says.

"If you boys are done chatting there, we might get on with what we're doing here," Babs interrupts and they all turn back to the video.

The game that night is fine; Connor feels like he's flying and his line is sent out again and again to slow Karlsson down. They can't keep him from making any shots but when Connor looks at the box score later, he sees that Karlsson was credited with four shots, none of which made it past Freddie.

The two goals that did go were shitty bounces and an unlucky clearing attempt by Marty that didn't get past the blue line. They manage to score four goals of their own, Connor doesn't get one but he gets two assists; one on Hymie's and one on Mitch's second of the night.

He goes home and spends an hour on Amazon looking up new garbage cans that are canine-proof. Most of the ones he finds at first are listed as proof for like little dogs but he finds one that has a couple of 4/5-star reviews from husky owners and orders that. 

Connor goes to bed that night feeling pretty good about how his life is going.

The next morning he gets a call from his dad which is just hell. His dad is a typical brusque hockey dad who treats emotions like four-letter words at the best of times. This is not the best of times. He talks awkwardly about how Connor could just...not be a Wolf, at least, not around his mother.

"It's not like chewing gum, dad," Connor says. "I'm still me, I'm just a Wolf too."

"You don't have to stop being a wolf," his dad lies. (Connor doesn't like how sure he is that his dad is lying but there's something in the way that his dad breathes that makes Connor sure his dad's not telling the truth.) "You just... you shouldn't be rubbing it in your mother's face. I don't think that's too much to ask, son."

"I can't stop you thinking that," Connor agrees, "but you're still wrong. I love you, dad, but I can't talk to you about this if that's going to be your position. Tell mom I love her. I'll talk to you again."

He hangs up before his dad can say anything, puts his breakfast into the trash and goes to pull on a hoodie. He can't stay in his apartment. He can't call Stromer who is playing an early game that day. He can't talk to anyone else; even thinking about it makes him feel like a failure as a son. 

Connor's pretty sure that his team-mates would be on his side. Mitch definitely would be. Probably the rest of the shifters and the non-shifters would default to supporting him because he's team. Connor just doesn't want someone to tell him his parents are being unreasonable, or dicks. He wants someone to tell him how he can make them see that he hasn't changed.

He wants to be able to pick up his phone and call his mom when he's cooking. He wants to be able to go golfing with his dad on his off days. He wants to know that he can drop around to his parents' house after a long road-trip for dinner and to catch up on family news.

Connor is starting to think that he's never going to be able to talk to his parents without the unspoken fact of his Wolf looming up like an elephant in the room.

It's not something he can think about without his stomach sinking into his shoes so Connor goes out his front door and just walks. He's not going anywhere in particular, just walking with his hands clenched tight in his hoodie pocket.

He ends up outside a library and he goes in, still not with any plan but just to distract himself. He wanders in among the shelves, half-listening to one of the librarians leading a nursery rhyme sing-a-long, and his eye catches on a list of topics on one of the shelves.

'Lycanthropy, Shifters, Morphic peoples,'

Connor turns down that aisle. He's thinking that maybe there are self-help books, more general information than you'd find on the internet, something that he might be able to borrow or recommend his parents read. He's not exactly thrilled with the selection — there are a lot of books but most of them are the sort of dry scientific shit that makes Connor's eyes cross.

He stares at the books. They all look the same, yellowed plastic covers over leather spines. They smell of dust and mildew and Connor's nose is itching from two feet away. He blinks and blinks again. He is not going to cry in the middle of a public library. He turns away a little faster than he means to and his shoulder catches the edge of the shelf.

Something flutters to the floor and Connor bends to catch it. It's a leaflet, new enough that he can smell ink and it's bright enough that it hasn't faded. It's kinda garish, all cartoon animals and woodlands. 

"LUNAR PARK! WELCOMES EVERYONE!" and then there's an address. Connor pulls out his phone and gets Google Maps open. It's actually not that far away. It doesn't have a website, but it has a couple of reviews that talk about good scent lines and Connor realizes that it must be an open territory.

He's known about territories, vaguely, for his whole life. History books talk about wars between packs of different animals over territory. It doesn't happen anymore because urbanization and the human need to be around humans winning over the animal instincts. It's part of why Weres are legally and ethically human, Connor read that when he was Googling.

An open territory is to a normal territory as a public park is to a garden. Connor's pretty sure of that, there was a bit on Sesame Street when he was a kid. An open territory is a place for urban Weres to go and stretch their legs. 

Connor looks at the leaflet and then he sticks it back on the end of the shelves and goes back outside. He's still antsy. He has practice in like two hours. Then he has an empty apartment and a voicemail full of his parents' disappointment.

He saves the address in Google maps and goes to practice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the end of the prewritten fic. All I have after this is the outline.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone for reading and leaving such lovely comments.


	5. Chapter 5

Practice runs long. Coach is playing around with the lines but he's not pushing them. They have a late game against the Rangers tomorrow so he wants them fresh. Connor pays the bare minimum of attention and puts his focus into his hockey. He can do that. He's good at hockey. He winds up with JT and Ennis on his line for the three-on-three and it's ...interesting. He doesn't think Coach is going to go with them in an actual game but it's fun. Ennis plays like he’s a foot taller and sixteen kilos heavier than he actually is and JT has a really good eye for the puck. 

Connor doesn’t get moved much. Coach seems more interested in trying to match Naz up with the top two lines. His line seems to be doing okay so Coach doesn’t break them up. It means that he gets to fidget with the water-bottles when they have a break and not get sniffed at. (Mitch is not subtle. Matts is worse.) Connor's okay. Well, he's _going_ to be okay. He can't not be okay, so he's going to be okay. He just needs some time to get his head on straight.

It's Hyms who bumps shoulders with him as they come in for the final circle and Connor tilts his head.

"Mario Kart night," Hyms says, soft enough that Connor's probably the only one that hears it. 

And, Connor could say no. He should say no, but Mario Kart is their thing. They used to play on the Switch that Connor bought with his first check from the Marlies because he could. It was something to do when they were on the road and they couldn't sleep. It used to be Willy and Kappy too but mostly, it was him and Zach.

Right now, Connor thinks he could probably do with a nice evening in. His apartment is empty and Connor needs to get the fuck out of his head. Zach's seen Connor drunk, heart-broken and just plain stupid. Zach's solid. So he dips his head and looks at Coach who is talking about the penalty kill. He's aware of Freddie, who is kneeling by Sparks and watching the team, not the whiteboard. He doesn’t look over at the goalies. Mitch and Mango are jostling a little back and forth. It's all normal.

Connor goes off the ice with the rest of the guys, holds his nose through the showers (Ax smells even worse with a Wolf nose than a human one) and gets dressed. Zach catches him in a headlock, ruffles his still-wet hair and laughs when Connor swats at him.

"C'mon already!" Zach huffs. "I'm starving."

"Gimme a minute," Connor towels his hair off. "Fine, fine! I'm coming."

Zach talks the whole way down, all small talk and gossip that Connor doesn't need to actually pay attention to. It's just noise and the occasional reminder that some hockey players are jerks and some guys should never be left outside without a babysitter. Zach doesn't say anything about Bites or Wolves. He just waves Connor in, sticks a bag of popcorn in the microwave and tosses Connor the controller.

They play for an hour before they get too hungry to concentrate and Connor goes poking around in Zach's kitchen. He's too hungry to cook anything more complicated than a stir-fry but Zach comes to hang out and chop vegetables. They talk about the upcoming games and about some of the things Coach is trying that they don't get.

"So," Zach says as he collects their plates and goes into the kitchen. "How're you doing?"

"Fine," Connor says.

"I don't believe you," Zach comes back out with two beers. "I know what you look like when you're fine and this isn't it."

"I don't know what you want me to say," Connor picks at the label of the beer. It smells like his brother's room did, the first time they snuck a six-pack in and spilled it all over the carpet. "I'm fine. I have to be."

"I want to know what you're thinking," Zach sits down. "You're holding it together really well but it's been kinda crazy."

"Little bit," Connor tries to laugh but it doesn't come out right. Zach doesn't say anything but he crowds into Connor's personal space. He draps an arm over Connor's shoulders and doesn't say anything when Connor leans into him. They sit in silence for a few minutes until Connor clears his throat.

"I learned to shift."

"That's good?" Zach rolls his bottle between his hands. "I don't know much about Weres and stuff."

"You and me both."

They sit in silence for another minute. The beer tastes a little off when Connor tries it. Zach keeps decent beer for when the boys are over but it tastes a little like bleach. He sets the bottle down on the table and looks down at his hands.

"I don't know what I'm doing," Connor whispers. "I just want to play hockey. Win some games, you know?"

"Uh-huh," Zach pulls him in again. "Is there anything I can do?"

Connor thinks about it. He wants to pour it all out; Zach's met his parents. On the other hand...Zach thinks his parents are cool. He's a good bro but Connor's stomach curls just thinking about explaining why he can't talk to them. There's a stack of those fucking pamphlets the size of an old phone-book in Connor's apartment and he can't imagine showing them to anyone. Zach doesn't know anything about being a Wolf that Connor doesn't know at this point.

"I don't think so," he says. "Just gotta push through, I guess."

"Okay," Zach says. He pulls Connor down into a proper hug and Connor goes gratefully. "You need anything, you know where I am."

"Yeah," Connor remembers the golfing thing and that should be okay, right? It's not as embarrassing as freaking out at the vacuum cleaner. "Actually, I tried going golfing."

"Yeah?"

"Might have to sell my clubs," Connor says ruefully. "I won't be playing anytime soon."

"Oh?" Zach gives him a funny look.

"I hit the ball, I catch the ball," Connor says. It takes a second but Zach's eyes go wide. "Someone else hits the ball? I nearly got that too. Lassie's got nothing on my reflexes."

"So, you're gonna play D going forward?" Zach says with a twist of a smile.

"I might," Connor shakes his head. "I don't even know. I thought it was going to be okay once I changed, you know? Lisa kept saying 'new normal' and I thought it was all done changing. I'm a dumbass."

He stops talking there because he's not gonna stop otherwise. There's too much scary shit in his head and Zach doesn't deserve to have all that dumped on him. He's being a good bro. Connor can't really ask him to do more. That's just being a dick. The silence drags on for a moment then Zach takes his empty bottle.

"How do you think Oz is working out?" Zach says and the conversation turns to hockey and the games ahead. When Zach looks at his phone it's late enough that Connor doesn't feel too bad about taking his spare bed for the night. Zach smiles at him like he'd planned it that way. Connor hears him puttering around for a bit before he goes to bed. He doesn't fall asleep for a while, just lies in the bed and listens to the sounds of Zach sleeping. His neighbour overhead has a real snoring problem and someone a couple of floors down is throwing up.

He can hear sirens in the city. Someone down the street and around the corner is yelling drunkenly into their phone. He breathes in the scent of the laundry detergent that Zach uses and the fake-flower stink makes his nose wrinkle. He feels like he's skated out onto the ice with the spotlight on and nobody behind him. It's like watching the last minute run out when you're five goals down and there's no hope.

He closes his eyes and rolls over. He wakes early; someone in this building has a really shrill alarm that they keep snoozing. After the third repetition, Connor rolls out of bed and goes to start the coffee. Zach comes out looking like he could sleep for another two hours and they ride back to the arena together. There’s a short video session of the two games that the Rangers have played this year but they aren’t playing consistent lines yet so Coach sends them to do a workout.

Connor clocks up some miles on the treadmill while the trainers watch and he goes to the weight room with Patty, JT and Naz. Naz and JT are talking and Connor tries hard not to listen in. He keeps trying not to but it's like his brain picks up that someone is talking and his ears tune in. He tries turning up his music but that just makes his head hurt. Connor thinks he’s going to have to get some new headphones. His ear-pods buzz faintly in a way that sets his teeth on edge until he finally just takes them off.

Patty's on the bench when Connor stops to grab a water bottle, halfway through his reps. Something catches Connor's attention, a split second before Patty tries to rack the weight and the left rack snaps off. He lunges, gets a hand on the bar and feels the weight drag for a second. Patty must get hold of it because Connor steadies it easily. He's staring up at Connor with wide eyes. 

"You okay?" Connor asks.

"Fuck," Naz says from right behind him. "How long have you been able to do that?"

"Do wha-?" Connor looks down. Patty doesn't have a hold of the bar. Patty isn't looking at Connor. Patty is staring at where Connor's holding the weight on his own. With one hand. Patty rolls out from under the bar and Connor hefts the weight off to one side and puts it down. "Umm."

The trainer comes running over to check Patty's okay and Connor gets pulled to the side so the trainer can check he hasn't pulled anything. He feels fine, nothing feels strained and when the trainer finishes the checks, he shakes his head.

"We're going to need to run some tests," he tells Connor. "Need to get a new baseline for you."

"Okay?" Connor says and they tell him to change into fresh workout clothes while they call the League. He hears the trainer telling someone else that they might as well get Mitch in as well. He feels a little guilty when Mitch shows up in a t-shirt and basketball shorts that stink of industrial cleaner. He wrinkles his nose and Mitch rolls his eyes.

"I know, right? They grabbed one of the sets that they keep for promo, it fucking reeks."

"Little bit," Connor says. "Did they say anything about what they're doing?"

"Baseline or something," Mitch says. "I heard the guy on the other end of the line and he was talking about the team being negligent." 

"Negligent?" Connor blinks and Mitch huffs and scoots a little closer. His shoulder bumps into Connor's as he kicks his feet like a kid in the naughty corner. "That sounds serious."

"It's fine, boys," Patty comes out of the gym with a towel around his neck. "It's all just routine."

"Okay," Connor's getting really sick of the whole 'nobody telling him shit' thing. He deliberately rolls his shoulders back.

"But you know," Patty says, tipping his head to give them the patented 'Dad' look. "You're right. They should have gotten Freddie."

"They might have told him already," Connor says.

Patty gives him the sort of look he normally reserves for when they've eaten too much sugar on the plane. Then he pats them both on the head. "I'll go get him. You wait right here."

Connor wants to ask why they need to wait for Freddie but it feels like another one of those things that people just assume he knows. Mitch whines in his throat and Connor leans against his shoulder. Mitch's scent loses the prickly notes of distress and Connor’s nose stops itching. Connor feels like he's got goosebumps between his shoulder-blades and his heart's beating like he just chased a Crosby breakaway the length of the ice. He remembers telling Zach that he thought he was done with changing.

He smells Freddie before he realises it's Freddie he's smelling. The goosebumps smooth out and his heart slows down. Freddie comes around the corner, t-shirt dark with sweat and sweatpants with a hole just over his knee. Patty's right behind him and he smiles at Mitch who grins back. Freddie looks down at them. He looks...well, okay. He looks like _Freddie_ , resting goalie-murder face and all but he doesn't seem to be actually pissed.

The trainer comes back and it's actually kinda funny watching him sputter through an explanation under Freddie's flat stare. He doesn't even look at Connor or Mitch, just keeps staring at Freddie while swallowing nervously every couple of words.

"Baseline testing?" Freddie rumbles.

"Brownie's starting to show changes," the trainer says. Freddie turns his head just enough to stare at Connor. Patty clears his throat and Freddie looks at him instead.

"He's definitely stronger."

"Hmm," Freddie makes a grumbly sound in his throat that sends tingles along Connor's spine. "They need to be tested with pack members present if this is going on the record."

"You-yes!" The trainer's sweating. Connor's not sure why but Freddie nods very deliberately. "Yes! You're absolutely right. We have the league observers on their way over. We're just going to start the warm-ups while we wait."

Freddie looks at Connor who shrugs, making Mitch whine as he gets jostled. Freddie's eyes narrow and they both freeze before he rolls his eyes and Connor's lungs unlock with a pop of air. The trainer hurries them over to the treadmills and starts them out at a walk. There's the uncomfortable bit where they get the hoses taped to their faces. The tape feels like it's got sand or, like, ground glass on it and Connor just about manages to swallow the growl that tries to escape.

Freddie's suddenly just _there_ , a solid heat right behind him and Connor misses a step on the treadmill. Freddie's hand is actually hot when it brushes against his cheek and Connor tips his head automatically.

"That's not the right tape," Freddie says and the trainer looks down at the roll in his hands and curses.

"Shit! Sorry, guys." He goes back out and comes back with another roll of tape. Connor stands on the edges of the treadmill while the trainer trades out the tape holding the tube in place. He's just settling in when the league observers show up. There's three of them, two women and a man who mostly pokes at his phone. One of the ladies watches the trainer and the guy watches the feedback from the different equipment. The other lady divides her attention between them and Freddie who is standing just behind them.

The trainers don't really talk to Connor or Mitch. Hell, they're not really talking to Freddie who is managing to dominate the room without saying anything. Everyone keeps looking at him then back at what they're doing. Connor doesn't really see much because the tests take up most of his attention.

Mitch smokes him when it comes to speed, which Connor was expecting. Connor can apparently run him into the ground though. They're both stronger than they used to be but the trainers can only test it by using the machines. Connor can't even lift half the weight that Patty was benching.

"It's in your head," the trainer says. "You don't think you can so you don't."

"It's not unexpected," Freddie adds. "Adapting can be a long process."

Connor nods, takes a drink and gets back to work. It's tedious and a little embarrassing having everyone just staring at him as the trainers keep pushing. It takes maybe ninety minutes to get all the information that the observers want and then he and Mitch get to stand around in case they need to run more tests. Then the observers want to get blood samples and hair samples so they have to go to the doctor's suite.

Freddie stays with them and the doctor's scent prickles like a super-spicy chilli. Connor wrinkles his nose. He's starting to stink a little even to himself. Freddie glances at him and Connor breathes in his scent to clear the doc's fear and nerves. He can't find the right words to describe Freddie's scent. With the rest of the guys, sure. Zach smells of warm fabric, soft cushions and a sort of indefinable smell that makes Connor think of a cozy living room, safe and comfortable. Mitch smells of ...wet fur, sticky ice-cream, the smell of a stadium full of happy fans. Patty smells of freshly-ironed suits, starch and a classy sort of cologne that makes Connor think of agents and the guys running the business.

Freddie ...just smells like Freddie. Connor doesn't think of anything or anyone else when he smells Freddie. He just thinks of Freddie. It's not like Freddie smells _bad_ either. It's just the sort of scent that drowns out everything else. Connor barely smells anything else when Freddie's in the room. The doc's office stinks of cleaning agents and stale sweat but Connor barely registers it because Freddie's there. Is this because Freddie's Alpha? 

Patty's kind of an Alpha too though, Connor thinks, maybe? He's not sure about it but Mitch reacts to Patty kinda like he reacts to Freddie. It's probably the team Dad thing but Connor doesn't feel any different when he thinks of Patty. He's a cool guy and all but Connor just barely registers his scent under Freddie's. He can smell Mitch better than he can smell Patty but Freddie dominates.

He winces a little as the needle goes in and the doc fills three vials before pressing a cotton ball into the crook of his elbow. Connor presses it into place for a second then pulls it away. The small puncture is already healed and the bruise that he always gets is fading into a brownish-green smudge.

"That's still so cool," Connor says and the doc laughs.

"Don't forget to keep eating," she says. "From the look of it, your metabolism's completely shifted. You'll need to see the nutritionists to get a revised meal plan after the next full moon. You need to eat more animal protein if you can but the actual make-up will be determined once we've got a baseline of your Shifted form's needs."

"Okay," Connor nods. The doctor takes his pulse and his temperature and tells him to go take a shower.

Connor glances at Freddie to find Freddie's already looking at him. He's suddenly glad that he's still red and sweaty from the workout because his cheeks feel hot. He remembers to drop his eyes a second too late and Freddie makes a rumbly sound that isn't quite a growl. Connor bites at his lip; he's fucking it up again, he knows. Freddie does step out of the way so Connor can leave and Connor bolts.

He nearly crashes into Coach as he rounds the corner. He actually manages to stop before his brain recognizes that he needs to and he rocks back onto his heels. Babs looks him over with a raised eyebrow.

"All right there, Brownie?"

"Yes, Coach." Connor feels his nose wrinkle. Something smells sour, a little like spoiled milk. Probably him, he thinks.

"I'll be getting that report later," Coach says. He frowns at Connor consideringly. "I'm going to need you to be in early tomorrow to talk about that but they say you should be good to play tonight."

"Awesome," Connor says.

"I'm trusting you," Babs frowns at him. "Don't let me down, eh?"

"Yes, Coach." Connor's shoulders are prickling as the sweat dries. Coach looks him over and nods a dismissal. Relieved, Connor books it for the showers. Mitch must have gotten out ahead of him because there's still steam in the air and Mitch's scent hanging in the air, strong enough to drown out the deodorant he's still using.

The shower is fabulous. He hadn't realized how much his own smell was starting to get to him until he was scrubbing it off. Even the low-level hockey player funk of the locker-room doesn't compare and he's feeling pretty good right up until he catches a glimpse of himself in one of the mirrors and sees the scars. 

They're healed. Connor barely feels them when he's getting dressed. The scars on his arm are so faded that he could wear a t-shirt and people probably wouldn't notice. He wipes the fog off the mirror and stares at the scars on his chest. He's pink from the heat of the shower and his scars are a darker red, like they're ready to start bleeding again. He flinches away from his own touch, the scars themselves don't register but the skin around them tingles just short of feeling painful under his fingertips. He presses his thumb into the edge of one just under his collarbone and stretches his hand out. He can't quite put his pinky on the lower scar that cuts into his lower rib. 

He doesn't realize he's shaking until he catches a sniff of something; mint and frost and something like a fresh winter morning. JT. He lifts his head just in time to catch JT's wide eyes in the mirror. Connor drops his hand, feeling like a kid caught looking for his first stubble in the bathroom mirror. He's suddenly really glad that he'd already tied the towel around his waist.

"All right there, Brownie?" JT says kindly.

"Yeah," Connor shakes his head. "Yeah, lemme just dry off."

"I'll wait for you," JT says and backs out of the room.

He's waiting in the locker-room when Connor comes back with his hair ruffled and mostly dry. Connor gets dressed while JT talks about the fixture list and the difference in facilities in New York. "Well, New Jersey, I guess."

"Feels good to be home, huh?"

"Oh yes," JT smiles and stands up as Connor finishes tying his laces. "Come on, I'm buying you lunch."

"I-you don't have to," Connor says.

"I want to," JT says and slings an arm around his shoulders. "And I'm guessing you could do with someone to talk to."

"I'm fine," Connor says too fast.

"You had a lot of changes happen," JT says with that good old Canadian boy sincerity that would be laughable if Connor tried it but somehow isn't in JT's calm voice. "And you've probably got a lot of questions. Mitch has."

Connor wants to argue. He wants to just go home, eat something greasy and diet-breaking and just sleep until he has to dress for the game. He doesn't. He doesn't because he does have a lot of questions and JT's a Wolf. He's also part of Connor's pack, if Connor's understanding things right so Connor can't afford to blow him off. JT's still new enough that Connor doesn't really know him. He's a good guy, by his reputation and the little time Connor's spent with him.

"I guess," he scrapes up a smile and follows JT out. JT takes him to a really nice little restaurant with a goofy cartoon dog painted on the sign. It's busy enough that no-one really looks twice at them but Connor can smell a mix of different scents that make him think that there aren't many normal humans around. He actually stops that thought in his head and rethinks it. There aren't many non-Were humans around. It feels stiff and awkward in his head but he's not going to turn out like his mom and dad. Weres are human. He needs to remember that.

He orders the club sandwich and the waitress taps on her little pad. "Is that the vanilla or the Wolf club?"

Connor blinks. He tries to imagine a vanilla flavoured club sandwich and it's kinda sickening just imagining it.

"Wolf," JT says. "Can I get a house special? Wolf, obviously."

"Not a problem," she smiles and Connor notes that her canine teeth are longer than the rest of her teeth. He tries not to stare, looking down at the menu instead. "I'll be right back with your drinks."

"Sorry to interrupt you there," JT says. He's smiling when Connor looks up. "Your scent isn't typical so she couldn't guess."

He must read the confusion on Connor's face because JT's smile fades. "'Vanilla' means non-Were. Normally the staff here don't need to ask, they can just tell by your scent."

"I don't smell like a Wolf?" Fan-fucking-tastic. He really is a freak.

"You do and you don't," JT says. "You don't smell human but your scent isn't pure Wolf either. It's a lot more Wolf than it was a month ago but it's not full Wolf."

"I am full Wolf," Connor protests. "That's what Lisa says and I turn into a wolf when I shift."

"I believe you," JT says earnestly. "But you don't smell like most Wolves."

"Is it 'cause I was Bitten?"

"Maybe?" JT drums his fingers on the table. "Your scent has been changing so maybe you'll get there? Honestly, I've never been around anyone who was Bitten before. It doesn't happen that often."

"Yeah," Connor fiddles with his napkin. "I'm definitely getting that. Nobody talks about getting Bitten or what you do if you are."

"It's not supposed to happen," JT says seriously. "Not like this. Biting someone is meant to be...more like marriage? Or adoption, kinda? Biting someone is meant to be about adding them to your pack and it's supposed to be serious. Attacks like what happened to you and Mitch? They're not meant to happen."

"Yeah," Connor smiles at the waitress when she breezes by with their drinks. He waits until she's gone again before he adds. "And I get that it's shitty that you guys have to put up with me and Mitch when you weren'-"

"Whoa, whoa!" JT interrupts. "We're not 'putting up' with you guys. You were already Pack. That's what a team is. You're not ...not an obligation or an imposition or whatever it is you're thinking."

It's a nice thought, Connor thinks. It's not true, but it's a nice thought. He runs his nail along the crease of the napkin and it tears easily. He sighs. "You know I can tell when you're freaking, right? I can smell it."

JT blinks at him and Connor feels like a douche immediately. He bites back his reflexive apology. JT takes a deep breath.

"That's-that's fair, actually. We _are_ freaking out but it's not your fault and nobody's blaming you or Mitch, okay?" He holds up his hands. "But I can completely see how you might get that from how we're behaving. It's not that, okay? I promise."

"So, what is it?" Connor says. He's tired of tip-toeing around the things he doesn't understand.

"We're freaking out because you are Pack," JT says and Connor can hear the capitalization loud and clear, "and someone hurt you both."

Connor breathes in and JT doesn't smell like he's lying.

"And we didn't stop it," JT says. He smiles a little ruefully when Connor looks at him. "We didn't even get revenge. It's not something that anyone talks about but if you're a Were in this league? You look out for the non-Weres. You were there with all of us and you were attacked and we didn't catch the guy who did it. And I know, it's stupid and it's selfish which is why no-one is saying anything but that's how we're feeling."

"Oh." Connor stares down at the small pile of confetti he's made out of his napkin. JT seems sincere so he dares to ask "So, I didn't fuck up the submission thing?"

"No," JT says and it seems like he's going to say more but the waitress arrives with their food. The club sandwich has an extra layer of bacon and a small pork chop. It looks like way too much food but Connor's stomach gurgles and he takes a big bite and the whole sandwich disappears before he really notices. He feels embarrassed for a second before he sees JT's clearing his plate just as fast.

JT waits until the waitress comes by to check on them and he's ordered another drink before he speaks again. "No, you didn't fuck anything up."

"So, it's always like that?"

"Well, no," JT rolls his shoulders. "Freddie does things differently than I'm used to. It's an Old World thing, I think. I'm used to North American Wolves and Freddie doesn't behave like I expect sometimes. It might just have been that you both...well, you both reeked of fear and pain. Freddie's a strong Alpha. There aren't many Wolves who'd attack his pack. He's not happy about it and that might have bled through."

"Huh," Connor says, doubtfully.

"I can promise you this," JT catches his arm and when Connor looks up, JT looks completely sincere. "You and Mitch? You were Pack before you were Bitten. You're still Pack. Heck, you guys are more Pack than I am."

Connor snorts and JT smiles. He still smells sincere and Connor eats the last of his sandwich in silence. JT orders a sundae and tells Connor that he can eat just about anything off the desert menu. Connor orders the brownie and JT cracks up. It's delicious, all the same and JT proves willing to answer a few questions.

"I have some books," he says eventually. "They're for pupp-kids, I mean. I don't have anything more adult but it might be a good starting point if you don't have anyone in your family who you can talk to."

"Uh, yeah, no," Connor shakes his head. "Nobody in my family has been a Were."

"That's a pity," JT says. "So you've had no real experience with a Were?"

"Couple of the boys growing up were Were," Connor isn't going to name names. He's not sure what the etiquette is so he's going to play it safe until he knows. "But it wasn't like...we didn't talk about it. Not really. It was...we just didn't talk about it. It never really came up."

He's not sure, thinking back, if that was because it wasn't hockey and none of his boys ever really talked about the parts of their lives that weren't hockey or getting laid. He wants to believe that but he's remembering how Stromer had seen through his parents' behaviour and he can't be sure. Did Stromer think Connor was like that? Was he right? It's not a comfortable thought and he doesn't like thinking it. JT must pick up something from his face or his scent because he frowns and Connor shakes his head, chasing the thoughts away for the moment.

"So," Connor says before JT can break out the Dad-voice. "What'd you think about the 'Canes penalty kill?"

JT gives him a long look that says he's not subtle but he lets Connor change the subject and they talk tactics and lines. JT says that he's hoping Coach gives him Connor for the game that night which is nice but not really realistic. Connor admits he's not sure how his skating's going to change.

"I'm not worried about that," JT says. "You're a good skater, Brownie. You'll be fine."

"I hope so," Connor says. "Don't need Coach benching me."

"He won't," JT squeezes his shoulder. It's kinda funny, Connor thinks. JT was Alpha back in New York, he's pretty sure. There's a charge to his scent that's kinda like Freddie's but nowhere near as strong. It kinda makes him think of his Granny, the sort of steady that could make anything better and who never panicked. But he's not feeling the urge to bare his throat that he feels every time Freddie looks at him. Is that weird? Or is that the way everyone acts and he just doesn't see it?

He's supposed to submit to Freddie, Connor's sure of that. Lisa keeps reminding him every time she sees him and it's the only useful advice on the NHLPA's website; submit to the team Alpha and respect his position. He doesn't know if he's supposed to submit to JT or Matts too. He doesn't feel the urge to submit around JT but he's not feeling the nervy sort of energy he felt when he was talking to Chara.

It's all messy and complicated and Connor doesn't know how to ask without sounding like an idiot. He's hoping the books that JT is loaning him will explain. They go back to the arena together and JT promises to bring the books to the arena tonight. Connor goes home and lies on his couch for a bit.

He thinks about texting Stromer but he doesn't even know what he'd say. His apartment feels empty. Connor shucks his clothes and crawls into bed. He's not tired enough to fall right asleep. He can hear his neighbours and if he focuses, he can actually make out what they're saying. He tries not to but he keeps tuning in to the conversations until he turns on the TV just to drown them out. It's embarrassing. Doubly so when he catches a throaty moan that makes him clamp a cushion over his ears. It's like two in afternoon!

There's gotta be something like a white noise machine, he thinks and he goes looking on Amazon. He orders the first four different machines with next-day delivery. Connor can't imagine how he's going to handle a hotel. Hotel walls are thin and he's had a few sleepless nights when he didn't have Wolf hearing. Goddamn it! Connor rakes both hands through his hair. Just another complication that he didn't need.


	6. Chapter 6

Connor manages to fall asleep eventually but it's the shallow sort of sleep that leaves him grumpy and sandy-eyed when his alarm goes.

He's not hungry until he opens his fridge. His kitchen is full of smells. It's like walking into a Yankee Candle store but with like, bread and protein powder instead of Mountain Glade or Autumn Leaves. It should be making him feel queasy but Connor's stomach gurgles. He fries the entire packet of turkey bacon, five eggs and three glasses of milk. He's still hungry. It's almost like being in the juniors again when he was eating every second he wasn't sleeping or skating. Almost. He's not ravenous but Connor grabs his keys and hits the drive-thru on his way in.

Toronto traffic is typically hellish but it feels like Connor isn't the only one who skipped his coffee. The other drivers are more sluggish than they usually are. Connor doesn't question it; just makes his way to the rink as he eats the three muffins he ordered. He could eat more but the extra food takes the edge of his hunger so he doesn't keep thinking about it. He's feeling pretty good when he pulls into the carpark.

"Hey, Brownie!" Gards is getting out of his car. 

"Hey, Gards," Brownie dumps the wrappers in the bin just inside the door. "Looking forward to the game?"

"Yeah," Gards rubs his face. "Rangers were playing pretty hot in the pre-season."

"We'll get 'em," Connor pats his shoulder.

"Yeah," Gards shakes his head. "Lundqvist's been a beast."

They hit the locker room together and Connor doesn't realize he's wrinkling his nose until Gards shoots him a puzzled look. "What's up, dude?"

"Something..." Connor sniffs again. "Something's off."

"Okay...off how?"

"I don't know." The wrong smell itches in his sinuses and Connor rubs at his nose. "It's just...it's like pepper in ice-cream?"

"I'm gonna have to take your word for that," Gards says after a pointed pause. "It just smells like a locker room to me."

Connor hums absently. At least that's what he means to do. Gards's scent prickles with unease and Connor realizes he's growling instead. He tries to stop but it's harder than he expects. The more he breathes in that wrong smell, the more he's tensing up. Gards is starting to look a little freaked but he's looking around the locker room rather than staring at Connor like Connor's a freak.

"Do I need to get Freddie?" Gards asks.

"I don't know," Connor can't stop growling. "I just...I don't know what's wrong?"

"Hey, hey!" Gards looks over his shoulder. "JT!"

Tavares's scent precedes him into the locker room. He looks straight at Connor, who is _still_ growling. He sniffs the air. Connor's afraid for a second that JT won't smell the wrong smell. Connor might just be crazy. JT tips his head and takes a deeper sniff of the air, eyebrows drawing down.

"Can you smell that?" Connor asks a little desperately.

"Definitely," Tavares says immediately. "It's faint but it's definitely there."

"Brownie sniffed it out before we were even in the room," Gards says all smug like Connor just scored on Carey Price or something.

"Can you narrow down where it's coming from?" Tavares asks.

"I-" Connor sniffs the air, trying not to feel too stupid. He can't really tell the difference in intensity; the wrong smell just _is_ but he feels his shoulders bunch up against his shirt as he works his way down towards the goalies lockers. He feels his lip curl as he passes the trolley with the towels on and forces himself to stop. "The towels? Or the bins? I think...?"

Tavares comes down to sniff the air and he growls as he breathes out. "Yeah. I think you're right. I'll get the equipment guys."

"Do we need to tell Freddie?" Connor asks.

"We will," Tavares pats his shoulder. "But it needs to be handled now."

"Okay," Connor says and Gards steers him back out of the locker room where Matts and Mitch are arguing with Mo about a CoD thing.

"Nobody in the locker room until it's fumigated!" Gards hollers and Connor feels his blush in his fucking ears.

"What? But the stench is half the charm!" Mitch says and Gards shrugs.

"There's more stench, apparently. JT's handling it."

Matts glances at Connor and frowns a little. Connor's never hearing the end of this, he's pretty sure. He crosses to take a bottle of Gatorade from the cooler as the conversation moves back to Call of Duty. Connor doesn't say anything. He's second-guessing himself again. JT didn't smell anything until Connor started acting like a freak. He's the worst Wolf ever!

Connor looks over at the door a second before Freddie comes through it. Freddie's got a take-out coffee that smells faintly of hazelnut but Connor can't be sure. Freddie's scent, his _presence_ fills the whole room. He blinks and breathes in carefully. He feels a little light-headed, like he's one shot into a night out. 

"Brownie?" JT comes out of the locker room. "Good catch there, bud."

Connor looks up just in time to see Freddie's eyes narrow. He flicks a glance at JT who doesn't seem to have noticed. JT just smiles at him. It's a Captain smile and Connor nods jerkily. Freddie's growl is just on the edge of hearing. Connor hunches his shoulders. JT turns to Freddie.

"The new towels need to be rewashed," he tells him. "They've used the wrong detergent. Nothing serious."

"Hmm," Freddie's growl rumbles through his chest. JT goes still. Matts is watching Freddie, hands tucked behind his back. JT tilts his head slightly. Freddie rumbles. Mitch glances from Freddie to JT and back before he looks at Connor with his eyebrows all the way up. Connor shakes his head once. There's a whole lot of tension in the air all of a sudden. Even the non-Weres go quiet. Gards and Mo both back up a little. Freddie stares at JT who immediately drops his gaze. Freddie stares at him for another couple of seconds that feel like they take hours before he huffs and turns away.

"Brownie," Freddie says and Connor drops his Gatorade. He can feel the embarrassment burning up his cheeks. He bends to grab the bottle and everyone is looking at him as he straightens up. Freddie's stopped growling so loud though Connor still hears the rumble as he breathes out. Freddie tilts his head towards the lounge and Connor looks at the door. He realizes what Freddie means a second too late. He ducks his head to avoid the staring eyes and goes out into the lounge.

He's starting to regret eating so much. His stomach clenches hard and Connor sits on one of the couches. He feels like a kid being sent to his room. He should have just ignored the stupid smell. Connor fiddles with the cap on the Gatorade bottle only to drop it when Freddie comes into the room. 

"Hey," Freddie looks down at him. "You did good. The towels stink."

"Really?" Connor says before he can catch himself. "I didn't...I don't know what they smell of."

"It's an essential oil," Freddie sits down beside him. Connor tips closer to him as the sofa squishes under his weight. Freddie props his elbow on the back of the couch and Connor forgets to breathe for a second. He can feel the heat radiating from Freddie and it's all pooling in his groin. Connor's always known he wasn't exactly straight but he's been close enough that he's never needed to admit anything. 

It's weird being not-straight because hockey's full of stuff that would be unambiguously queer in the real adult world but has an unspoken 'no homo' under everything. Connor's mostly dated women because mostly he's not into hockey players. Mostly. Freddie's always been an exception to all of Connor's quiet little rules. He's willing to admit that he's had a crush on Freddie since their first season, at least to himself. But Freddie is straight. Connor remembers Matts saying something about going out with Freddie to find the hottest ladies and this is probably just some Wolf thing. Connor's struggling enough just being a Wolf.

Freddie hums low in his throat. Connor glances at him then back down at his hands. He smoothes out a wrinkle in his pants. "You're upset."

"No?" Connor's voice wavers a little. "I don't know what I did wrong?"

"You didn't do anything wrong," Freddie says. "The towels had vetiver sprinkled on them. It's not toxic but we'd all have had rashes, this close to the full moon."

"Isn't the full moon..." Connor trails off. Freddie's smile creases the corners of his eyes. Freddie's got a really nice smile, Connor thinks, he should smile more.

"Tomorrow," Freddie finishes.

"Fuck," Connor shakes his head. "I thought it wasn't for, like, a week."

"First few games hit you like that," Freddie says. "You didn't have to worry about the full moon last season."

"Yeah," Connor swallows. He's having trouble focusing with Freddie right there and _smiling_ at him. He tries to focus. "Does the full moon change things? Like, beyond the obvious?"

"Some things," Freddie says, sounding amused. "A full moon brings the Wolf a little closer to the surface."

Connor thinks of some of the links his dad had sent him and feels his stomach clench. There were some statistics about increased aggression around the full moon. He’d kinda hoped it was bullshit. He licks his lips and peeks at Freddie again. "Yeah, Google had some stuff to say about that."

Freddie snorts. "Most of that is bullshit. The Wolf isn't a monster. Even wild wolves are social creatures. The bloodthirsty monster's the human bit, not the wolf."

"That’s not as reassuring as you think it is," Connor says weakly.

"You're only bloodthirsty on the ice," Freddie loops his arm around Connor's neck and pulls him in. "We'll just keep you off the ice until you shift back."

Connor's reply gets smothered by Freddie's heat and his smell. Connor's only ever smoked weed once in juniors but this feels like that turned up to eleven. He feels like he's melting and his brain just goes quiet. Freddie says something else; Connor feels the vibration but he doesn't understand a word. He's more relaxed than he has been since that alley in Ottawa and Connor just wants to stay right where he is. He doesn't realize how much he's leaning into Freddie until he hears Mo's voice and Freddie growls. Connor sits up sharply. His face is burning. He's not sure if that's Freddie or his own embarrassment.

"Coach wants us ready in five," Mo says. He's smirking like he's watching a prank unfold and Connor looks over at him so he doesn't have to look at Freddie. There’s an unhappy rumble that makes Connor freeze and Freddie’s arm squeezes him closer for a second before he lets go. Mo makes a big show of looking at his watch and Freddie snorts.

“All right, we’re coming.”


End file.
